All War, All the Time
by Sirius333
Summary: The Events in the Rekhel system that eventually turned the system into a tangled mess of alliances, intrigue, and of course, war.
1. 1: The Nudge

**Eldar Shuttle _Majestic Finch  
_ Southwestern corner of the Tempestus Segmentum  
 _  
_1/2 Light year to the galactic south-east from the Rekhel star.**

Onshin despised this being...if a _being_ was truly what sat across the table in front of him. An ape, an animal that had become too smart for it's own good. An ape that made demands, no less, as if it owned it's betters and not the other way around.

Onshin was tall, even for his kin, at 2.1 meters, but Hesker was tall as well being only three centimeters shorter. The eldar's skin was much paler than his counterpart. Where Callen's skin was the ashen grey of most spacers of his race, Onshin's was white as milk. Callen's duster was a dark brown, and he had the tricorn hat typical of his profession, with dark green breeches and a vest to match his coat. He cut an impressive figure, not merely tall but also broad shouldered, though Onshin noticed some primitive cosmetic improvements via facial surgery and dental correction. Callen clearly had not always been as handsome as he was now.

Onshin wore full battle regalia. Crude threats of force often made impacts upon humans, and Onshin wanted everything in his favor. Between the two banshees flanking the door and the autarch, it was likely they would match ten humans in a fight. Callen, for his part, was all alone and wielding not even a laspistol. But for somebody so severely outmatched, Callen looked unperturbed. Onshin grudgingly gave him a small modicum of respect for that. Emphasis on _small._

This meeting was the result of blind broadcasts via the Rogue Trader into the expanse of space beyond the Rekhel system. Clumsy, even for a human. But they served their purpose, letting Onshin understand that negotiation was a viable option. The Eldar held rogue traders to be valuable gems in human society. Not that any self-respecting Eldar feared the Monkeigh, but it was far more beneficial to settle things through mutual agreement... and laying waste to fleets of humans was both time consuming and boring in the extreme. But now that an audience had been granted, he was audacious. He was demanding. Like a child at the overdue attention of it's doting mother, Callen simply came in and stated, not asked, his wants.

"I want these raids stopped."

"Stop the raids...Why? We've taken mere snacks and trinkets. And we've left your fellow...humans unscratched."

The monkeigh in front of him contorted it's face in a show of distaste.

"Frankly, I'd be more comfortable if you took the crew and left the foodstores. Slaves can be replaced more easily."

 _My, my, what a slip._ _Giving out such information so casually_...Onshin thought about it. The human was hiding something. Didn't want him to know something. His mind made several connections.

"You're foodstores are running out."

The ape's eyes dilated ever so slightly. He then leaned back, messaging his chin, a pretense at a neutral look. On one of his fellow monkeigh, the ploy might have worked, but Onshin pressed in.

"30 billion inhabitants across the system, only a single world to grow food for them all, along with a meager moon for farming aquatic fauna. It's not enough. You rely on the food shipments coming in. If I don't stop taking your food shipments, the system starves to death within the century."

His opponent opened his mouth in carefully fabricated indignation, prepared to respond with a threat, but Onshin beat him to it. "You call your fleet and they'll be chasing sensor shadows for the next hundred years. You'll look like a fool, and be relieved of your position for wasting their time. After which time we return to to prey on your ships and we starve you out anyways."

The monkeigh sighed. "I fold."

Onshin was unfamiliar with the term.

"What do you want? Name your price. Gold? Some of the heavy elements from the moons? Name what you need, and I'll do my best to make it happen. It'll be a stretch, it'll cost us a couple of billion lives at least. But I can get more out of those moons if you need it. So long as the forge worlds are still able to pay the tithes, I don't care what I need to do."

The autarch nodded, understanding now. "I want you."

The Captain stared, not comprehending momentarily. The Eldar clarified.

"Your bodies, and your war-making equipment. Your system has at least two thousand post-human warriors at their disposal, along with countless m-...humans and near-human warriors with significant numbers of combat vehicles. I need them."

The so-called _lord_ Callen Hesker gaped like a fish. "Post-human...you mean the _space marines?_ You want me to pledge to you our emperor's finest, along with guard regiments and ogryns? Dear autarch...do you have any idea what a lord general commissar is? Or perhaps you have never heard of the inquisition?

"Not only do I _not_ have the power to fulfill your request, but if I tried, my brain would be splattered all over the hull in a matter of moments for sedition, heresy, and sympathizing with xenos forces! It would take at least ten years if not more to petition a crusade in the system, if they even cleared it. I can only assume you want the greenskins to the north scrubbed from their holes?"

Onshin nodded, though the fact was that it didn't really matter who earned the wrath of the monkeigh guns, so long as the system was left undefended. No need to let Hesker know that, of course. Let him make is own assumptions, the autarch wouldn't stop him.

"Well, that's not happening. The administratum is many things, but it is not suicidally stupid. Launching a crusade into the north would attract every Ork looking for a fight; which means, as you well know, every single ork to the north _period_. Doing so could ignite a massive Waaagh and mire this sector in war for the next thousand years! It would divert massive amounts of our designated tithe, needed elsewhere on other fronts, to be used in-system for self defense. All so that a xeno princeling could get his hands on a few new worlds? I am by no means a patriotic individual, autarch, but if my death warrant is to be signed, I will do it for my own emperor, and not for you."

Callen Hesker leaned back in his chair, looking fiercely resolute. Onshin thought for a few seconds.

"You believe you would be doing all this solely for my benefit?"

Hesker shot him what he supposed passed as a poisonous glare. "You have me over a barrel, am I supposed to think you're doing it out of charity?"

"This particular princeling wants no such worlds. Indeed, this could work to your great advantage. The greenskins have in their control many worlds which might be converted to the manufacture of food-stuffs. No more food shipments from out of system. And I'm sure you would make make much better neighbors then the orks."

Hesker looked aside to a particularly interesting spot on the wall.

"Yes, I have thought of that myself. But it's still nothing to risk a waaagh over. Had it been the case, I would have petitioned the administratum already."

Onshin sighed patiently. If manipulating the humans could be done, the easiest path would be here in this room. While prodding them could be achieved in other ways, this was the most direct, and by far the least bothersome. Onshin collected his thoughts for a moment. There had to be some way to get all the forces to leave the system voluntarily, but so far the human had proven more shrewd than he had imagined they would be. The Imperium, especially their post humans, could and often did make strategically unviable blunders. He had hoped Callen would be one of those overambitious militant commanders. But clearly, the man had already seen the situation from that angle, and wasn't biting. He would need convincing.

"If you had allies in such a war, would you be willing to commit?"

"And where might I find such allies? Will you be marching alongside us?" Hesker snorted disbelievingly.

Ludicrous. Onshin needed all his forces here in the Rekhel system to watch the trap after it was baited.

"Certain factions might be bought. You had said that you might be willing to pay in the deaths of a few billion servants to pay us in valuable metals. We might redirect that materiel elsewhere to secure ourselves some...mercenaries."

Hesker narrowed his eyes. "Why? Why all this? Why take the effort? What is your gain in this?"

"Friendlier neighbors, of course. The orks are not the most placid species, we would welcome someone with more intelligence and less...odor."

Hesker continued staring. Clearly, he wasn't buying this. Onshin sighed in a feint of defeat. The lie would be easier this way, if the human believed he had forced his opponent into telling the truth, to let him think he had a bargaining chip.

"One of our maiden worlds to the galactic northeast. The orks prepare for waaagh even as we speak. Not against you, against our cousins. We need a...diversion." As the best lies always did, this one had a kernel of truth, to keep it palpable. There was indeed a maiden world there that did exist, but Jusai-Iex hadn't contacted them in centuries.

"We're still forgetting the administratum. They won't authorize a crusade anytime soon."

"I was under the impression that this system was beyond the oversight of your overlords, at least for the moment. Your Path grants you some powers to go forward as you wish."

Hesker began chewing at his lip, deep in thought.

"They do offer us a bit in the way of autonomy. But I would have to entice quite a few of the local players into this gambit. And the Space Marines do as they will, regardless of what I might think in the matter. The planetary governors, most certainly, will need to get off their cushy behinds and be moved to act. Not an easy feat."

"But it will be done." Onshin's voice now brooked no argument. Now that he knew it could be done, it would be.

"Oh? Will it?" Hesker asked conservatively.

"If you thought my corsairs a nuisance before, know that they were merely being playful. They preyed on your transports merely for sport. I assure you that they can be much more... _driven_ when tasked to eradicate an enemy. You will mobilize, or you will be starved out. And when you are starved out, we will go after every evacuation craft, we will slay you in your billions as you flee your burning system. That maiden world will be saved, or your kind will suffer for it. One of our species is worth more than a billion of yours. Losing an entire planet...is _unacceptable._ "

Hesker could have done many things, and indeed Onshin had seen humans do many things, especially when openly threatened. But among humans, he was especially dignified and collected. A dignified ape, but dignified nonetheless. He stood.

"Your maiden world will be saved. At considerable expense. But you will owe us. You speak of honor. All your kind jabber of it, while taking our ships. You won't harm a surrendered enemy, you say. This is a favor. A favor that costs the Imperium a considerable price. It will be repaid."

Onshin let him believe that. He was dealing with scavengers, after all. What did he care what they believed? These humans were merely picking at the bones of what the Eldar had been millenia ago. If a vulture believed in a debt being owed him, it did not necessarily make it so.

 **111th Guard Regiment Garrison: Rekhel III**

Rekhel III was a brutal planet with brutish occupants. A planet covered completely in ice a kilometer thick in even the thinnest places. Water Ice, to be precise, not frozen methane or carbon dioxide. Water and Ogryn were the primary exports of Rekhel III, with most of the former going to the desert wastes of Rekhel I.

 _Why couldn't the two planets be reversed?_ Thought Atticus, not for the first time as he exited the administration hab. Just then the wind gusted, forcing him to pull his coat around him tighter. _Of course if this blasted planet was closer to the Rekhel Star, then I'm sure the Galaxy would have seen fit to make sure it was some sort of horrid death world with a hundred varieties of poisonous bugs and vines that try to eat you. Because Emperor forbid anything ever be easy._

In many ways, the Ogryn were actually the least brutish thing about the planet. Living in ice caves and huddling together to keep warm, the Ogryn at least had enough cognizance to understand concepts like forgiveness, mercy, and respect.

The ecology of Rekhel III seemed to be made up of four things: a type of fungus that used biological processes to make heat. This was fed on by overlarge rat creatures so fuzzy as to look like waddling balls of fluff. Said fluffballs fed lean and very agile creatures that looked like wolves but were more biologically akin to bears, Rekhel Ice Foxes. The Ice Foxes were known to be cunning, very nearly matching the Ogryn for their intelligence, hence the name. The Ice foxes, of course, fed the Ogryns. But the fungus attached to the intestines of all who consumed it, and endured. Thus, whenever an animal on Rekhel III defecated, the fungus was already there, the spores exiting the digestive track as well.

To say that Atticus did anything but trudge stubbornly across the windblown ice would be an injustice. The commissar was an older, frail looking man, his horshoe of grey hair hidden by a black ushanka. His old bones creaked with every step. The commissar's regularly indomitable, ramrod straight posture was bowed by the necessity of providing the smallest possible target for the merciless wind to bite at.

Atticus breathed a sharp exhale of relief as he entered the next facility, the indoor firing range. The planet was so cold that the machine spirits themselves often balked at working in such conditions. Atticus had heard about the first regiment that had been stationed here, who had tried to conduct a field exercise outdoors. Half the regiment had died of cold, half of the remainder had been killed by Ice Foxes, and nobody had made it through the affair without severe frostbite on their fingers, toes, and faces. If the survivors had not found the ogryn caves when they did, they would have also died. And thus the Ogryn had been discovered.

Atticus stamped his feet and shed his gloves so he could stick his fingers in his armpits. After roughly thirty seconds to recover from a walk that had taken twice that many steps, he made it to the desk to requisition twenty four rounds of 20mm cannon. Today he would be evaluating the performance of an Ogryn from his regiment's 7th companies third platoon. An Ogryn by name of Beals.

In a way, Atticus Kanklin relished working alongside the Ogyrin. Yes, they were crude (and sometimes smelly, if you didn't remind them to wash). But they didn't care that he was a commissar. Didn't care that he could have any one of them executed. And it was refreshing, wonderfully so. Here, there was no barrier to true friendship. No careful mental filtering of what might or might not be considered heresy. Sure, some of the troops were more subtle about it than others, but none save the Ogryn were truly immune to the affect. The Ogryn didn't carefully sort out everything they said just to make sure it made him happy. They didn't rework their entire language and way of communicating just for him. And it...it made him feel like he belonged. Belonging. That feeling when you were truly appreciated, a feeling he had not felt since his graduation among his peers in the Scholus Progenium. Not an obstacle to be worked around or a burden to be borne, but a _person_.

That feeling was what he got when he saw Beals looking at him with delight as he approached his place on the shooting range. "Atty! Aya, Commy-Sar! Come an' see me shoot? See me shoot for da Emprar?"

Atticus couldn't hide his grin. "Yes, Beals. I came to see you shoot."

"Been workin'. Been workin' I has, so I can shoot for da Emprar an' make him proud!" Beals puffed out his chest and stood straighter.

"Oh, have you? You've been drilling like I showed you?"

"Yesh, yesh. Drillin' lots and lots!"

"Very good, Bealsy, the emperor loves diligence. You've done him a service. Now let's see what you've got."

Beaming, Beals looked around quickly for his autocannon. It was a specialized variant with a rotary magazine of twelve rounds, each to be fired singly. It was also much sturdier than most autocannons, working on a mechanical function rather than electronics. Only the Ogryns could handle the trigger pull for such a monstrous mechanism. They had commissioned them specifically from the adeptus mechanicus for the Ogryns of the 111th. Sadly, the paperwork for the lascannons he had requisitioned had not gone through yet. It was possible that they could arrive tomorrow, or that they wouldn't arrive in his lifetime. Such was the way of the administratum. Beals overlooked his autocannon once, twice, then found it on the third scan of the area. Upon recovering it, he turned to the commissar and gave him a sharp salute with his autocannon over his shoulder. Smiling, Atticus motioned for him to continue.

"Anda one; ayup." He brought his autocannon to his shoulder once and aimed down the sights, his stance and form that of a model marksman. Damn, but it had taken hour upon painstaking hour to get him to remember that. But now he was doing it all on his own. The commissar couldn't have been happier. Beals lowered the autocannon to his relaxed position.

"Anda two; ayup." He mimmicked his previous motion. "Anda three; ayup...anda...uh...d'uh..."

"Four" Atticus provided. Beals screwed up his face in embarrassment. "Yup yup. Anda four!"

From here, Atticus helped Beals count out the motions.

"And five. And six. And seven..." And on he went, with Beals repeating the same perfect motion every time like the loyal soldier that he was. Once the Ogryn got to twenty, Atticus cheered him and applauded. Beals looked like he had won a medal.

"Sometimes," Beals whispered conspiratorially "Sometimes I forget the numbers and lose count. So I just keep doin' em until my arms get real tired."

"It is the effort that matters, Beals. The Emperor sees you, and his heart swells with pride."

Beals blushed and looked at the ground. "D'aaaw, I ain't nothin', mister Atty-kus. You're all smart like y'are and makin' sure ever'one gets der food and whatnot..."

"We all have a place in His divine service. But moving on..." Atticus leaned in and inquired mischievously "you wanna shoot for real?"

Beals audibly gasped. "You mean like with missus Sarah? With real bullets?" Atticus smirked. "Yes, with real bullets." To an outsider such a question sounded silly, but anyone who knew Ogryns also knew that they would happily fire their weapons from sunrise to sunset just to see the bright lights, hear the loud noise, and watch with glee the destruction they reaped on anything around them. Leaving such creatures the authority to requisition their own ammunition was obviously out of the question. As such, each corporal would requisition ammunition for their Ogryns as needed at each training period. Beals clapped and whooped. "Awright! We gunna shoot for real!"

A voice echoed across the firing range, interrupted by the crack of lasgun fire. "Second Squad reporting for eval, sir!" Atticus and Beals turned. The good corporal was here, along with the rest of the squad. The troops of Rekhel III were dressed much like the Valhallan Ice Warriors because, of course, they had to be. Atticus made a mental commentary of the solidarity. He wouldn't go so far as to say he was impressed, but it did look good for Sarah and the squad to show up at the evaluation. It was halfway expected. On the one hand, most squads in the 111th looked upon their Ogryns as a cross between beloved pets and squad mascots, so they wanted to be there whenever their Ogryn went to the medicae, or received a commendation, or so on. On the other hand, this was an evaluation, and an evaluation was usually done by a commissar. And nobody liked seeing a commissar if they could avoid it.

"Sarah! Aww, the whole team is all here!" Beals was ecstatic. Atticus couldn't help but do a mental roll-call. Sarah, Paul, David, Solomon, Eric, Francis, Randal, Merissa, Nathan, and Beals made the centerpiece. A Section composed of three fireteams and one Ogryn, which had three sister sections with their own similar set up and their own Ogryn. The fireteam made up the smallest sub-unit of the Imperial Guard, three soldiers. Three fireteams made up a squad. Four squads made up a platoon. It was hard for most adepts in the Order Dialogus to grasp that the entire Imperial Guard was made upon billions of tight-knit groups like these. They weren't just lists of names and payrolls. They were jury-rigged families forged on the battlefield in lieu of the real thing.

 _Families that your position will forever set you apart from._

Atticus winced. Such thoughts had no place in the mind of a Commissar. His position was a reality of war. It was naive to assume that men, left to their own devices, would do their duty as a simple matter of pride. Some people simply didn't have integrity, in fact whole groups of people thought the word a rather subjective one. They would compromise. They would buckle. They would lie to themselves to make the heretical sound pure, and the pure sound damnable. It was the Commissar's role to see to it that his men were untainted. In it's own way, it truly was a favor. After all, it was better for a man to feed his mortal body to the guns of the enemy than to feed his immortal soul to the monsters of the warp.

He cleared his head. There would be time to stew on matters of ethics later. "Right then. Let us have this show on the road, shall we?"

"Yep yep! Got bullets?" The Ogryn's excitement was tangible.

"In his right hand, Beals."

The Ogryn looked down, his eyes widening. "Oh!"

"You remember how to load it?" Atticus asked. The ogryn's face scowled in determination, as if the loading mechanism were his most hated enemy. "Yup yup. Press the thing-"

"-The thing?" Atticus inquired sharply. Beals shook his head "Not THAT thing...not da...trigger. The button on da side here" and Beals lifted the autocannon to illustrate his point, finger resting next to the cylinder release. "Andja press it," Beals pressed it. "Andja pull it out." Beals did so. "And put da bullets in it."

"Very good, Beals. Will you kindly do so?"

"Yessir."

Beals rested the barrel on the ground delicately and began loading the cylinder with rounds. Atticus noted this with some satisfaction . Beals had failed his last evaluation by trying to lift the cannon one-handed while trying to load it in futile fashion with the other. In the process, he had pointed it at the commissar, which technically was an offense that could be punishable by immediate and summary execution. Luckily, Atticus had no wish to make an utterly pointless display of discipline by destroying a valuable resource to the Imperium. And on a secondary note, not as important as the first, it would have been ethically wrong as Beals clearly had no intention of killing or threatening the commissar. Atticus made it a point to display the Emperor's mercy where it could be afforded.

Once Beals had loaded the weapon, he carefully brought it to cradle in his arms, looking proud of his accomplishment.

"All right. Now the fun begins. We will have several pop-up targets for you, Beals. I want you to fire two, and _only_ two rounds at each target. Will you be able to do that?" Atticus asked. Beals nodded his head solemnly.

"Alright. _Target lane six clear for firing!_ " Beals readied his weapon and pointed it down range.

"Target lane Six, confirmed clear for firing!" came the response from the Target Master. Atticus brought up his timepiece.

"Evaluation beginning on my mark.. _.Mark!"_

The targets were cut-outs of orkoids. Beal's accuracy was impressive, proving the oft repeated phrase about Ogryns: "Not stupid, simply focused." Every hit was on or near center mass, right at the center of the chest of each orkoid. He managed to empty his gun in just over six seconds.

"Load!" Sarah shouted. Beals did so, fumbling only a split second on the cylinder release and inserting a moon clip into the oversized weapon. He snapped the cylinder shut and readied the weapon again. Beals repeated the process, downing another six targets.

Silence enveloped the group, broken by only the occasional snap of lasgun fire as one of the other lanes fired. The squad looked between Beals and the Commissar with baited breath. Beals looked nervous, wondering if he had done something wrong. Atticus couldn't help but smirk. _This_ was the affect a regimental commissar had on the average infantry man. He looked at the squad with mock anger. "Your Ogryn just passed his evaluation with flying colors! Why do I hear no cheering, you miserable rats?!"

 **Rogue Trader Vessel** _ **Golden Opportunity**_ **, above Rekhel III**

Lord Callen Hesker sipped at his scotch. This visitor to his system was most _definitely_ not welcome. A vessel, who had immediately hailed him as he came back from his most unprofitable meeting with the Eldar.

 _Prepare for a customs inspection._

A _customs_ inspection! It was like being frisked upon entering his own home. His family had brought this system back into the fold of the imperium shortly after the Great Crusade millennia ago! His family was the closest thing the High Lords of Terra had to a founder for this damnable blot on the star charts. And now he had a thousand stormtroopers rummaging his ship like he was some common vagrant freight tramp! It was completely undignified. And he had told them as such.

To which they had replied:

 _We are sent from the Ordo Hereticus under the command of Itzal Hermenigildo. Your ship will be boarded and searched. If you attempt to resist or flee the system you will be fired upon._

No. No, this was not a good day at all.

He took another sip of his scotch. _  
_


	2. 2: Dignity comes at a price

**The _Golden Opportunity_ in orbit above Rekhel III  
**  
Lord Callen Hesker made a conscious effort to calm himself before meeting the inquisitor. The family motto flowed back to him.

 _Every enemy is but an ally that has yet to be redirected. Every force of destruction is but a weapon that has yet to change hands._

In the midst of his bridge, Lord Callen Hesker had a theater-in-the-round hosting an ebony table topped with marble and inlaid with mother of pearl. This is where he awaited his guest. It would do no good to lord his position over the inquisitor. While he was far and away richer than the inquisitor, the inquisitor was...well, he was an inquisitor. A man with the ear of the High Lords of Terra. If an Inquisitor said that a world would need to burn for the wider Imperium, then the Lords would nod and take him at his word. For all Lord Callen Hesker's wealth and station, he did not have that kind of power. And power always trumped money.

Which was a pity, as money was something that Callen Hesker did not lack. His ship was an affair of measured decor. It was respectable, yet not opulent. It was modest, yet not brutalist. The halls were paneled wood, the ceilings tiled with lumens down the center. The deck had been coated in a rich polished red enamel, so it lacked the hostile barren look of steel plate, but was inexpensive to replace. Callen had seen the fluff and preening of nobles and had not been impressed. He was busy man, and he had no time to enjoy a floating palace in space. But some amount of class as to distinguish himself as a man of style was nothing to be ashamed of.

The door opened and a male stepped through. Callan was not typically an envious man, but he would have been lying if he had said he did not feel a twinge of jealousy at the natural beauty this man held. Tall, lithe, bronze skinned, black hair...clearly this was one who had never wanted for attention from women.

Callen had not been so fortunate, living the early years of his life with a handful of teeth that had seemed to be forcefully stuffed into his gums at odd angles, and a nose far too large for his face. He came to appreciate joygirls for their work in those years. Later, when he had finally cleared his house of all it's debts, he had gotten cosmetic surgeries done to improve his looks. But the memories remained.

Itzal was dressed for his role; flowing brown robes, and as Callen's wayward son Vask might describe, _an outrageously pimptastic hat_ of the variety the Ordos Hereticus highly favored. Around his neck he wore the rosary of his station, in his left hand he bore a walking stick stylized to form a hound's head, and on his opposing hip he wore a melta pistol. _A left-handed man. Interesting._

He was followed by figure much less impressive; a slim young woman who had recently had her head shaved to the point of near perfect baldness, the bronze plugs embedded at the base of her skull signifying her as a psyker. The robes that blanketed her figure were gray, and much less stylish, looking more than anything else like a massive poncho draped around her. Her yellow eyes were focused on a data slate which made audible _bip'_ s and _boop'_ s as she played a children's game.

"Lord Callen Hesker. I wasn't expecting such open...hospitality. Your ship was rather transparent as my troopers held their search, for which I am glad. And your greetings are most...humble if I do say so myself."

 _Thank the God-Emperor I didn't buy any of those wondrous art pieces._ He had stopped to admire more than one muse's work aboard the Eldar shuttle. Wraithbone sculptures could fetch quite a price among the imperial elite. They could also get him thrown in a penitent engine.

Callen cleared his throat. "I didn't want to make the wrong impression, Lord Inquisitor. To invite you with a magnificent feast and great pomp could be seen as...tactless. I am an imperial subject with my dignity, first and foremost. Should you wish anything during your stay aboard my ship, you have but to ask. Fanfare with trumpets and ceremony seemed unfitting for one of your station. In my experience, an inquisitor seldom brings happy news of good tidings and peace. And above all, these things could have been seen as a distraction or a diversion from your most holy purpose. You did not come to this system for feasts and idle chat. You have a job to do, and I'll not keep you from it."

He stepped forward and sat at the far end of the table from Callen. His servant sat instead took the steps leading to the table.

"How very refreshing. Someone who understands my work, and doesn't try to turn me to trivialities. I was told I would find a man here in the system who valued hard work and diligence as a path to the emperor's good graces. I am happy that the appraisal seems accurate. A spartan welcome and right to business. I am Itzal Hermenigildo, and this mystic in my employ-"

"-Hi-"The woman spoke without raising her eyes from the dataslate.

Itzal, if he noticed this interruption, did not acknowledge it.

-"is Alecto. As you astutely observed, the duties of my station do not wait. As such, I thought it might be best to look to the authority in the system for my bearings. That authority happens to be you. You have the stench of heresy about you-"

-Callen stiffened-

-"as all your kind do. But you serve your purpose as granted to your station. Your station, bestowed upon those talented sinners by the order of the Holy Emperor. He sends his enemies ahead that even his enemies might be of use to the Imperium, under pain of death. Even though your inherent greed disagrees with the altruism of the Emperor's servants, you still obey. You still serve. You are still of use to the Imperium. That is your saving grace."

The cogs in Callen's head began turning once again. "My station...by that you mean Rogue Traders. You're an Amalathian, aren't you?"

Hermenigildo showed his smile again. "Your knowledge of theology serves you well. All under his Holy Name serve their purpose, save those who have turned their hearts to the ruinous powers of chaos. The goal of the inquisition is much more humble than many portray us: merely to oversee that all branches of the imperium act in accordance to the roll they were designed to fill. You, trader, fit only at the fringes of the imperium. But that does not mean you do not fit at all."

Callen took a deep breath. They situation had gotten a whole lot less dangerous now that he knew that the Ordo Hereticus hadn't sent one of it's more monodominant puritans to blindly purge the system in holy fire.

"Well then, you serve as quite a relief. For lengthy periods of time I have bent to the nobles of this system, cajoling them with promises of wealth and fortune. But as any good deal maker knows, there are two sides to every coin. I have had to give away a worrying amount of carrots to entice them, and have had precious little in the way of stick to dispense justice. And, while the dispensing of justice is certainly within my jurisdiction, I would welcome one with much more specialized resources for the role. I would happily guide you through the system."

The Inquisitor steepled his hands. "Speak plainly: do you suspect any factions here of heresy? Do you have any proof that some on this planet have turned from His holy light?"

Callen paused. How could this be used? An inquisitor was not to be trifled with, that was sure. But fortune went to the bold. If he could find a way in which both his aims and the inquisition's aligned, then there was a great ally to be had here. Then again, he could not deal with such a thing now. Now was not the time. The Eldar had their agenda, and they would not care a whit for this business of purging and heresies. It was clear that he had to either sway the inquisitor to his side or to get him out of the system with all haste.

"Inquisitor, I assure you that if I had proof then you would find this sector would be quite purged by now. I have no desire for an uprising or a rebellion. It is very hard for a rogue trader to make his fortunes while up to his eyeballs in cultists and warpspawn. As of now, my only gripe is the negligence of the noble houses. They all play The Grand Game, a web of schemes and plots to topple each other. As you can imagine, this infighting leaves us open. We could raze every noble house to the ground, only for the power vacuum to cause yet more bickering and backbiting."

Itzal tilted his head. "So you have no proof, but you _suspect_ heresy. Where?"

Throne damn the man, he was driven in his course. Changing vector, Callen went on the offensive. "Frankly, I would like to hear you answer your own question. An inquisitor doesn't simply roam the Segmentum, questing for heresies to root out when there are so many threats on all fronts. So if I might be so bold; I ask you why you are here at all? Surely you have some purpose already ahead of you?"

The inquisitor leaned back. "An inquisitor's business is his own. For now, I wish to hear your case. They said that a competent and able Rogue Trader held this system. With so few competent men in the Imperium, it would be best to make sure you have what you need to see things through."

Callen's mind came upon a sudden revelation. A terrifying one. This was a litmus test. If Callen were to attempt to leash the inquisitor and set him upon his rivals, it would prove his guilt and he would burn for it. But to claim that no heresy might be found might also indict him, as there was always some dark corner where the soldiers of the Archenemy practiced their arts of subterfuge. He spoke slowly, knowing that any word he said now could be his own death sentence.

"As I've said, I have no proof. And mere suspicion is nothing to burn a planet over. I can only advise that if you are so adamant about finding dragons to slay, then you must send some acolytes down to the planet yourself and make your own judgments from there. I would knock down the doors of the Joygirl houses to uncover Agents of the Dark Prince. I would slog through the sewers to find the scum who devote themselves to the Plague Lord. I would send spies to oversee the courts of the noble houses to uncover the cabals devoted to the Changer of Ways. I would test the guard regiments to see if they have fallen to the Lord of Skulls. But to put cities to the torch on the presumption of guilt without first discerning the truth of the matter would waste His precious resources. It would be negligence and heresy of the highest order."

Itzal's smile reached his eyes.

"My my, but your reputation _does_ proceed you. They said to me that you were a man who did things right or didn't do them at all. They told me you were canny, and allotted energy and resources as a fighter might place blows and feints. As it stands, I find that reputation fitting. You have my respect.

As you might see, I am rather young for an inquisitor. Newly raised to the title, in fact. As of yet I have no chosen acolytes. I may send my stormtroopers down to your hives to round up some low preachers, hive scum, and others who might serve me. I'll also, of course, keep my eyes open for anything in need of cleansing fire and holy justice.

But of course I did not come here simply to fill a roster. I indeed do have some inquisitorial business here in the system. A Chaos Warband by name of Lust's Flame has swept through a neighboring system. They destroyed a whole chapter of Astartes, and had another chapter join them. It was a severe blow to the imperium, to say the least. I am making the rounds to shore up our defenses as it were. And above all, we must see to it this system is untainted. The call of the Warp cries to it's followers, and chaos begets chaos. There very well may be some heretics on this world already planning our downfall as we speak; planting the seeds of betrayal withing, while calling to our enemies without to make planetfall."

The woman on the steps cackled. "Not a drop of blood for the Blood Lord, not a speck of rot for the Plague Father, no lust for the Prince of Pleasure but can't plan it out. No, no, no, the Architect of Fate will just take it away, so you must fill yourself with faith and plunge blindly ahead. Oh, it hurts the voices so..." She descended into a dark chuckle.

Callen, temporarily distracted, stared at the psyker. "Is she mad?"

"Yes, quite. I picked her up in the previous system. She displayed some considerable talent in a Dark Eldar Raid so I had her loaded onto a blackship with explicit orders to return her to me if she survived. Your son was also there."

Startled, Callen quickly returned his attention to the inquisitor once again. "What? My son? How do you know?"

"I tend to take note of those who save my behind. I'm rather attatched to it, and when people pull it out of a fire I make it a point to read up on their bios. It's a useful habit-"

"-NOT FAIR! It was Dizzy that saved you!" The psyker shouted indignantly. "It was Dizzy and you know it! Killed everything because he is what you made him! And now you won't even be thankful, because he's the monster you created! Not fair-"

"-SHUT UP OR I'LL HAVE YOU WHIPPED!" Roared the Itzal, rising to his feet. He stormed over to the psyker and grabbed her by the ear, dragging her out the door. He turned on the threshold, the psyker whimpering miserably. "Lord Callen, I'll have words with you later about how we will proceed. For now, I must dispense some discipline."

With that, Itzal marched the psyker down the hall.

_

Itzal dragged the psyker down the corridor, cursing her with every step. She was sobbing now, like the pitiful bitch always did. The inquisitor threw her against the wall. "I will NOT lose one of my valuable resources because she was running her mouth! You are never to speak of the assets aboard an inquisitor's ship! Never! They are state secrets, by decree of the High Lords of Terra!"

Alecto howled in despair "He just wants to be noticed! He saved me-"

Itzal's fist connected with the side of her head. Hard. He caught her as she crumpled to the deck, and stood her back up against the wall. "The Officio Assassinorum _does. Not. Exist!_ It does not exist, and none of their agents exist. This is for your own protection."

She whimpered, still crying. Emperor, she was disgusting. Her face wet with tears and snot dribbling from her nose. "It's not fair." Itzal snarled at her "Welcome to the universe, child. Men and women die by the billions, worlds burn, and the enemies of mankind triumph every day. The galaxy is not _fair._ "

"You ought to remember him," she said, looking up. Her eyes were suddenly lucid, the first time he had seen her unplagued by madness in days. "He gave everything that he was so that you could have your killing machine. He could have been anyone, done anything. But he turned his back on his own humanity for people like you. He destroyed himself for you. Don't ever forget that."

Itzal softened. For the first time she had said something that he could agree with. "He didn't give anything for me. He gave for the Emperor. And the Emperor remembers him, and all those like him. He will have his payment in death, when he sits at the right hand of the Golden Throne." 

**Departmento Minutorum Penal Facility: Rekhel II  
**  
A loud, obnoxious, and artificial buzz ripped through the prison facility. It was a truly horrid thing, a noise specifically designed that no human ear could dismiss it. And certainly nobody could sleep through it. Bellatrix groaned, and rolled off her cot onto the cold cement floor, where light shone down through the bars of her window. It was certainly no high security facility with advanced electronics and adamantium walls. They weren't housing trained assassins, just mere scum. The primitive structure would suffice for this purpose. The prison was a brutalist structure. Barren cement walls and steel bars. Nothing more was needed, nothing more was given.

Just another day in paradise, she reminded herself as the bars on the cell slid open. After 30 seconds the buzzing stopped. Bellatrix hefted herself to her feet, both simultaneously easier and harder given her size. While most inmates traded for stims, Bellatrix had never touched the stuff. What she traded for here in the detention facility were growth hormones smuggled from the Adeptus Biologis. And it showed. She was roughly 2.3 meters tall, her musculature an overdeveloped parody of the human form. On a male, the cords of hardened tissue would not have looked out of place. On a woman, they looked unsettling. While they weren't as ugly as those bought with steroids, growth hormones still allowed Bellatrix to surpass what would have been normally achieved by any woman.

If the prison had had time allowed cosmetic supplies, she would have styled her blonde hair into a tasteful pixie cut. As it stood now, it was a lank, tomboyish mess pasted atop her head. Her face was...marked. It would have been beautiful once, an angular elven face of pointed chin, wide eyes, and small nose. Now it was marred by a massive scar that simply could not be dismissed, running vertically from above her right eye all the way down to her jaw. It had not healed gracefully, leaving a thick and ropy twist of calloused tissue.

Life here was bought with memberships to different gangs and allegiances to various parties. Nobody survived long by "Going alone". Sleeves of prison tattoos painted lurid pictures across Bellatrix's arms. You did things here you weren't proud of. You dealt with people you despised. That was life in the penal system. And if you couldn't deal with it, you died.

Bellatrix stepped outside her cell. A form came walking down the hall, inspecting each female as she stood as still as a statue. Bell stiffened as he reached her. The guards here unnerved everyone. They weren't arbites. They were volunteers from some radical fringe militia. Between his face and his waist, his torso was bear. He bore a censer in one hand and a power maul in the other. An iron mask was affixed to his face, but Bellatrix saw no string or adornment that held it into position. Even as he approached, she heard him whispering prayers and oaths reverently to the God Emperor. He looked her up and down, went to her cell, inspected it, came back out and continued down the hall.

Bellatrix relaxed. Unlike many many guards in female prison facilities, these showed no taint of lust. And yet it was hardly a comfort, as their eyes held instead an intense, almost manic focus on the task at hand. She knew without a doubt that the guards would kill her or any other inmate without hesitation. They were myrmidons, holding no brand of individuality, no streak of personality. Each one was exactly like the next, sparing no thought for anything but what their superiors tasked them with.

Another buzz ripped through the facility, this one mercifully shorter, spanning only three seconds. All cells were clear, all prisoners were accounted for. Bellatrix turned to her left, shackling her steps to match that of the other, shorter inmates. The guards walked besides them, and began a hymn, as if this were some sort of perverse ceremony. And to them, maybe it was.

They went to the mess hall, where they were served several things, the biggest item being a bowl of protein paste. Bell had learned to suppress her gag reflex long ago. It wasn't that it tasted bad, but that it was served every meal. If one were to imagine eating any other food three times a day, seven days a week, it didn't really matter what kind it was. It could have been fruit, it could have been a sweet desert. The fact was that _anything_ served this frequently would get old, and soon. Regardless, she was grateful that it provided nutrients for her body. She traded a syringe of stims for two more bowls of paste and a pill of growth hormone.

From the mess hall they went to the transports. They were to spend most of their day in the gem mines. She would be hefting loads of dirt and rock, and would make some illicit profit by scavenging precious bits of gemstone that the miners had either missed or considered too small to be worth taking. She ducked her head into the tracked hauler. The whole affair was uncomfortable, as the transport had not been built to accommodate someone of her size.

Deep below ground, dust filled the air. Heavy equipment was used by paid workers, trust of the massive machines being given to those with clean records. Pneumatic hammers broke way bits of rock, creating hellish racket and necessitating the use of hearing protection. After the resulting dust had been shipped through the sorting conveyor, inmates loaded the pulverized grit into wheelbarrows and wheeled it to the soil dump, usually a tunnel that had reached the end of it's vein and had subsequently been abandoned in favor of more lucrative sites.

At the soil dump, she met her supplier. A skinny miner named Hank. He had two monkeys with him, mining hands that were providing him with security. Thankfully the zealous militia weren't here at the mining facility, and the private security guards overseeing the operations here were much more lax. It was that laxness that allowed smuggling such as this to occur. It also allowed knife fights between various inmates to break out, and many members of the penal system had been found stabbed to death in the abandoned tunnels. Hank, like other assorted scum of his sort, made additional profit by trading miscellaneous goods in return for whatever items of value the inmates managed to nick.

But today was different. One of his monkeys was armed with a sledge, and another was armed with a shovel. Both were holding them too tightly, nervously. Something was deeply wrong here. Bell looked around warily. They were alone.

She asked without preamble: "What's gone wrong?"

"Oh, ain't nothin' wrong, miss. Just a price hike. That's all." Hank's smile wasn't real. It was strained, as if he were lying to an arbites officer

"What kind of price hike?" She asked.

"Inquisitorial vessel's managed to dock somewhere in system. Seems they're putting all the Joygirl houses into a bit of a fix. Put an additional tax on all the brothels, they have. A sin tax, as it were. Looks like they're afraid that the girls might be corrupting honest working men like myself. Course, not all of us can afford this new tax."

Bellatrix didn't wait to hear any more than that. She could have tried to negotiate, but his men wouldn't have been expecting trouble if they thought a negotiation could be reached. His smile was strained because of what he knew he was about to do. He and his mining hands were going to attempt to violate her no matter what she said.

No, it was better to get a preemptive strike rather than blathering and wasting her breath. She grabbed a large and heavy rock from her wheelbarrow and hefted it at the one holding the sledge. Miraculously, it went exactly where she aimed it, his left knee. The rock soared true and hit. The man howled, his left knee buckling. His friend rushed her with the shovel. She stepped into the charge, coming under the shovel and grabbing it before the man could bring it down on her. She wrenched it away and hit him in the teeth with the handle. The single strike wrought carnage on his face, leaving a mess of broken teeth and shredded lips. She wouldn't afford him the luxury of observing what she had done, and followed through with a stab, putting the shovel's blade into his neck.

The second monkey got to his feet, bringing his sledgehammer up in front of him defensively, stumbling back before her onslaught. She swung, and the shovel clanged off the metal head. She stabbed again, aiming for his hands this time. The blade scraped along his knuckles, paring his flesh away from bone. He yelped, dropping his weapon instinctively. Bellatrix was on him immediately, stabbing ruthlessly with the spade. Bones crunched as she brought the blade down with abandon, ignoring his pleas for mercy. Finally she saw an arterial spray, and knew it was over. He would bleed out soon enough. Panting, she stepped back, the man's final words an incomprehensible gurgle leaving his broken jaw. She looked around for Hank, and cursed as she realized the man had fled.

 _No, no, no, Dammit, NO!_

This was bad. This was very, very bad. She was a convict. Hank was not. One word from him and she would hang. It was too much to hope he would be too afraid to come forward. She could tell the arbites he was part of a smuggling ring, but it wouldn't matter. At the end of the day, a convict's word was worth nothing. Less than nothing.

She stood their for a moment, looking at the corpses. She bent down, grabbed a few handfuls of dirt and began rubbing off the blood. _Why? Why didn't you just let him get away with it. You could have submitted._ She sat down in the tunnel, her back to the rock wall.

At the end of it, she had to admit she had broken the first rule of the penal system: _your_ _dignity is_ _not worth your life._ She could have submitted. She could have let Hank have his way with her. Nobody would have known, except, of course, Hank and his cronies.

Another little bit of her rebelled. _It's better this way. This is the last bit of self-determination you have left. They've taken your home, your job, your life. You weren't truly living anyways. This is the one thing you wouldn't let them take._

She grappled with it. Wrestled with the idea of it. She had been born on Rekhel II, and had rebelled from the beginning at her supposed roll in society. Like all women on the planet, she was supposed to be a breeding sow. A living womb to give the departmento munutorum it's annual tithe of elite troopers. She had refused all attempts to convince her that this life of servitude was preferable, all arguments against her holding no purchase. Finally she had snuck out of her room and tried to buy illegal transport to one of the hives on the outer moons, where she could fade into obscurity. Obviously the attempt had failed, and she had been caught.

She had remembered lonely nights in here cell before, twirling her shiv in her hand, thinking about whether or not it was worth it to end it all. Life in prison truly chaffed at Bellatrix. Every order barked at her made her back stiffen with rebellion, every little thing taken from her had raised her hackles, every alliance of necessity made her sensibilities roar in outrage. She had kept it suppressed. Kept her anger in check.

But at night it all came back to her. _Why bother living when your life isn't truly your own?_ Day after day she submersed her thoughts in the oceans of action, drowned out the thinking by the doing. Night after night every suppressed thought came back to haunt her, robbing her of sleep. This affront had been the final straw. It had all come full circle when Hank, just like the deparmento minutorum, had attempted to use her for her sex. She was not simply a vagina, nor a womb. They thought she was denying her emperor given duties. She simply saw it as a way to identify herself. She was not a cog in a wheel, a spring or a sprocket, a circuit in a system. She was a human, and she would self-determinate as befitting her stature as a sentient being.

She allowed herself a few minutes to cry. Then she stood, set her jaw, and waited for the Arbites. What had been done was now done. There was no going back. She would let them take her dignity or her life. And now her life was forfeit. Dignity was the only thing she had left. She would die with it.

* * *

 **Craftworld Zia Shui, Deep space to the Galactic South East of Rekhel.**

The central dome of the Zia Shui craftworld was well over a hundred meters in height, and less than a quarter of it visible given the heavy mist and fog that perpetually clouded the closed environs of the space station. There was a central spoke running the center, vertical, covered in (relatively) small protrusions not unlike fungus's that so often made themselves at home on trees. The wraithbone scooped inwards, as to hold soil. Soil covered in deep, thick moss. It was a luxurious carpet for Ynetera to wiggle her toes in while Onshin was describing with pride how he was embroiling himself and his craftworld ever deeper into their struggles.

Ynetera sighed. Young Onshin, garbed before her in silver body wrappings, wound around his limbs and torso, no doubt hiding a knife somewhere underneath all of that. Young Onshin who spoke of noble battles fought for truth and justice and honor. Young Onshin the Paladin, looking to right the wrongs heaped upon the Eldar.

Ynetera was garbed in wrappings of the dull deep partial to the farseers of her craftworld, the wrappings merely covering her waist. Nudity was nothing for an Eldar to be ashamed of, and she enjoyed the cool misting rains on her skin. Her waist length black hair was perpetually damp, looking bedraggled and unkempt. She was short for an Eldar, being only 1.7 meters tall, and enjoyed being so, regularly taking the opportunity to duck under low branches and weave through small spaces to demonstrate that she could.

Finally she silenced Onshin with an outstretched finger. **  
**  
Ynetera sighed audibly. "And this achieves what?"

"Well, as I've said, without the Rekhel system defended, our Dark Eldar adversaries-

"- firstly, they're _your_ adversaries, please speak for yourself when picking quarrels with others. And secondly, you have mistaken my question: This argument with our dark cousins, what does it achieve? What is your end goal?"

 _"_ I was _getting_ to that. In fact, you've ruined the whole surprise. Ynetera, we will _destroy them!_ An entire kabal wiped from the face of the galaxy!"

Onshin looked as if the resounding silence was a sign of incredulous awe, a stupefied muteness as she digested what he no doubt thought would be a great achievement. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Ynetera was, in fact, tired. Tired as one might be explaining the wrongness of murder to a child who couldn't even comprehend death, much less it's implications.

"And...?" Ynetera asked.

"And what? It'll be the end of it, won't it? The end of the whole bloody feud! No more lives lost, like you've been berating me about for ages! No more soulstones lost! Peace at last!"

"Which could just as easily be achieved if you simply, you know...left them alone."

Onshin looked absolutely boggled and horrified, as if Ynetera had mutated into warp spawn before his very eyes.

"After everything they've done!? After all the Eldar they've killed? After all the soulstones they've destroyed-"

"-None of which would have happened had you not pursued this matter of petty vengeance as far as you have-"

"-It is not _vengeance_ , it is _justice_ Ynetera! It is a matter of honor! Honor, the staple of our entire craftworld! They struck the first blow-"

"-Which means that you both must bleed until one or the other is wiped from the galaxy? Foolishness. And tell me of the Rekhel system. How many billions of lives have you gambled to bait this trap of yours?"

"Billions?" Onshin scoffed. "Have your wits left you? A mere thousand and seven hundred lives inhabit the Jusai-Iex craftworld. What is this talk of billions?"

"Eldar are not the only beings in the galaxy, Onshin."

Onshin's face went very flat. Purposely calm and expressionless, to hide the disgust welling up inside of him. "The humans are...are apes. Animals. They war among each other, they kill each other in droves. They are ruled by petty emotions of fear and anger and willful ignorance. They-"

Just then, Onshin heard a very heavy _thump_ behind him, as if something of a hundred and a half kilograms had been dropped from a great height. Even the wraithbone shook. A very deep, brutish voice spoke.

"They are not unlike some Eldar I could name."

Onshin swallowed, hard. He had heard one of these types of voices before, nearly a hundred years ago. It had been filtered through a heavy mask of something the monkeigh called ceremite, it's voice distorted by crude electronics. But still, it was the same type of voice. But such a voice belonging to such an ugly creature that could not possibly be aboard such a beautiful Eldar craftworld. He turned very slowly to find his fears manifested before him. One of the post-humans, a so-called _space marine_ , stood there, looking for all the world as if it belonged. As if it's mere presence did not taint the beautiful craftworld biome that it stood upon.

Ynetra giggled. "I present to you a Space Marine by name of Garren Valoria of the _Brothers Apostate_. They are a renegade chapter. The Imperium of Man has declared them traitors in league with chaos. A notion that couldn't be further from the truth."

"Please go on, dear Autarch. Go on describing my race so accurately as you were before. You put it so eloquently, it would be a shame not to hear everything you have to say about the human species." Garren Valoria said in a voice as sweet as honey, folding his arms in front of him.

* * *

 **Convent of the Burning Heart; Deserts of Rekhel I:  
**  
Bellatrix had a hard time focusing on the officer in front of her. Mostly because she was awestruck and confused that she was even still alive. The woman in front of her wore a hijab emblazoned with the symbol of the Burning Heart, a charred black human heart in gruesome detail, featuring cracks of bright red to suggest a burning furnace of magma within. The order of the Burning Heart was one of the few organizations with full-blown military grade facilities on the planet, and thus it was loaned out to anybody who happened to train there. The sun was much larger in the sky this close to the star, but even at high noon the red dwarf gave off a crimson light that bathed the desert sands in the hellish red glare straight out of a horror flick. At dusk as it was now, it seemed natural, at least.

The inside of the hangar housed her platoon lined up in neat rows, many of them nearly dead on their feet after running for an hour nonstop. Bellatrix was one of the few that had done hard labor, shrugging off the abuse with ease. The rest were murderous hivers from the outer moons, lean to be sure, but unused to strenuous athletic activity. All of them wore nothing more than glorified sports bras and shorts, being forced to run barefoot in the desert sands. By the time they had stopped, the sun was far enough in the skies to burn the sands to a scalding temperature. The fine sands of the planet managed to swallow ones foot all the way up to the ankle, making running a torturous affair, and their skin was now the color of an angry welt, albiet one that managed to engulf the whole body. Getting to sleep would be an absolute bitch with sunburn like this.

"Ogryn, are you still following me!?" Bellatrix was snapped out of her reverie by the agent of the Burning Heart in front of her, a temporary transfer for training purposes.

"Ma'am, yes ma'am!" She shouted, even though she hadn't the faintest idea what the woman had just said.

"Then perhaps you can repeat to me my last instruction."

 _Oh, frag it._ She blinked, and said the last line that she could remember. "We are dead women, and we exist to bring death to our enemies! We ride the Chimera to battle, and it is our chariot-"

"WHICH HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH REPLACING THE ROADWHEEL IN THE EVENT OF A BREAKAGE, CONVICT!"

Bellatrix's knees buckled as her collar sent several hundred volts of electricity coursing through her body. She flopped like a fish as the energy provided her with "discipline."

"It's your life, convict, not mine. But that single Chimera is worth infinitely more than ten penal battalions put together. The Adeptus Mechanicus takes it's machines very seriously, and you can bet your sorry life that they WILL have you turned into a servitor if you can't figure out how to take care of them. Am I clear on that?"

"Ma'am, yes Ma'am!" she gasped.

She glanced at the ten gun servitors that the battalion officer kept as she rose to her feet. They could and would be used to keep discipline if needed. Not that that event was likely, given the explosive collar she and the rest of the battalion members wore. It was clear that more than one of the servitors had been female before their conversion.

"It is my duty to turn you worthless maggots into something the Ebon Shroud can escort into war. But as it stands, you scum are not even worthy of taking a lasbolt for a sister of battle, and you sully their honor by your pretenses here! Class is dismissed, wash your worthless hides and get to the armory for wea"

It had been a scant three days since the incident in the mines. With her mind blessedly free to wander, it went back to the scene it had been contemplating all day.

 _"Inmate 62750901, you are charged with the murder of two innocent men. Your worthless life has been preserved by the magnanimosity and grace of His Most Holy Name. You are a stiff-necked and disobedient woman, who refuses to let her body bear the most honorable children of the Emperor, who refuses to provide us with the means to defend your pathetic life. And yet you stand here now, having destroyed two servants that rightfully belong to your savior, He who preserved you. You are a worthless mongrel dog that bites the hand that feeds. Do you have any last words before your immediate execution?"_

 _She stood with her hands manacled, but she dared look her accuser in the face. She would not buckle. Not here, not now. They had taken everything from her. This is what she had left. She could still muster the audacity to look the arbites official in the face, could still show her defiance in her eyes. The judge looked down his nose at her from on high, angry at even this perceived insubordination._

 _"I have only the truth. Hank Nemara is a rapist and a smuggler. I defended myself when he attempted to rob me of my virtue after attempting to buy illegal growth hormones, which were also needed to defend myself in the confines of your prisons. Your judgment is false and presumptuous."_

 _The Judge screwed up his face in fury and indignation. He raised his hand, ready to sentence her. A man stepped forward before he could pound his gavel. "It is this most humble servant's opinion that she speaks the truth!"_

 _To her shock, it was one of the myrmidons. The judge opened his mouth, but could not find the words to respond. For a moment, he looked tempted to pound his gavel anyways and have her summarily killed. With what must have been incredible restraint, he returned the instrument to the desk in front of him._

 _"What is your name?"_

 _"This honorable servant has forsaken a name in the pursuit of obedience and diligence in the service of the Golden Throne."_

 _The judge looked dumbfounded. The Sisters Repentia and Death Korps of Krieg trod such a path, it was true. But out of penance, as a last resort to redeem themselves. This was a mere Fraternis Militia member, volunteered to the service of the Ecclesiarchy. To go so far...it bordered on the fanaticism of the Red Redemptionists. The judge blinked._

 _"Noted. The names of your parents then."_

 _"This servant was born of the womb of Rebecca Calinger and sperm donor Edgar Sullen."_

 _"And what vital information do you have to cast on the light of this case, most diligent servant?"_

 _"I feel it must be noted that the specimen in question has killed before, but killed only in self defense when attacked by other penal scum. Smuggling and such petty crimes are part and parcel with prison life, encouraged by local law enforcement in their negligence and their greed. Inmate 62750901 has indeed proven a most exemplary member of the penal system. The growth hormones she has ingested have managed to save her life on multiple occasions, as witnessed by this humble servant. She starts no fights, she keeps to herself, and her yields in the mines surpass other inmates which speaks to her work ethic."_

 _"Are you honestly trying to defend this...this mongrel bitch?"_

 _"This servant can only speak as to her previous behaviors, and note that it would go against all precedent for her to begin an unprovoked murder spree. This servant also notes that the Arbites failed to detain Hank Nemara as custom by Arbites law, letting him go free despite accusations of a crime."_

 _"The accusations of a murderous dog!"_

 _"Accusations nonetheless, which under penal code 138 paragraph B article 10 states that the Arbites must take the accused into custody to affirm if they are true."_

 _The judge flamed red with rage._

 _"Are you accusing me and my associates of incompetence!?"_

 _"No, m'lord. That is the duty of the Inquisition."_

 _All at once, the judge's face began going from scarlet red to pasty white, leaving a blotchy patchwork of both colors on his newfound expression of respect and fear._

 _"What...what are you then suggesting, noble servant?"_

 _"This servant advocates that the mishandling of this case be reported to the inquisitor immediately to clarify that it was an honest mistake of the honorable Arbites and not a heretical perversion of justice. This servant also notes that, as the defendant has proven quite adept at killing whether she is guilty or not, that the penal battalions are ever shorthanded."_

 _"I...I see. Inmate 62750901. You have two choices before you now. You may join a penal battalion in a quest for...for penance and service to the emperor as our honorable fraternis militia member has suggested. However, refusing this most gracious offer would spit on the honor of the astra militarum, and will be taken as an affront to the mercy and grace of the courts, for which the penalty is death. How do you proceed?"_

 _"I accept the...the most gracious offer that stands before me, and choose to join the Astra Militarum."_

 _"Very well. Hank Nemara is hereby placed under probation while the inmate is to be transferred to Penal Battalion 571245, the so-called Rekhel Resalka. Case dismissed."_

The scene vanished from her mind as she stepped into the showers. She had been lucky, it had to be admitted. For the first time in her life, she began to contemplate the idea of whether or not the Emperor did honestly look down on all his servants as the Ecclesiarchy preached. Not that she would begin going to sermons anytime soon, but it was at least a comfortable thought, if a rather fanciful one.

"I bet the Ogryn could lift the fragging Chimera with all of us in it. Why does the stupid wench need to know how to replace the roadwheels?" One of the woman giggled.

Bellatrix sighed. So began the games again. Thrown to the bottom rung of the ladder once more. Ogryn. What a nickname. It wasn't as if she up and decided to begin using the hormones for giggles. Indeed, if taken too often or in the wrong dosage, they could cause mutation and deformity.

 _At least you're alive._

"Emperor be praised." she muttered sarcastically.


	3. 3: Smells like Teen Spirit!

_**The Golden Opportunity**_ **, high orbit above Rekhel I  
**  
Callen Hesker looked at his son. His son glared back. Both of their plates went ignored.

Thankfully they had a private room to themselves. Callen had suspected something like this might happen, and he had been determined to avoid a scene on the bridge, so he had brought this to his personal study. The furnishings of the room were sparse, but not the cold steel of common deck hands. A round mahogany table sat in the center with a rich cedar desk against one side and a set of various weapons adorned the opposite wall. Above the door was the head of Fenrisian wolf, it's face set in a permanent snarl.

Vask was a beautiful boy, and that could be honestly said without a shred of fatherly bias. He was average height, but his face was mercifully free of his father's pitiful superficial genes and yet he inherited his sire's broad back. A strong jawline, a long but broad yet not porcine nose set perfectly in place, bright blue eyes and long blonde hair tied back into a tail behind his ultramarine blue beret. His coat was Imperial Officer standard, but he wore it well and with pride. Yet his face was set in hard lines as he stared at his father with a look of cold granite.

"It's not poisoned, you know." It was a pitiful attempt at humor.

"A comfort, father" his offspring deadpanned.

Callen took a bite of his dish, as if to prove his statement true. Vask took a sip of wine in return. Then the glaring resumed. The Rogue Trader sighed.

"What is my crime? I assume you have some sort of reason for hating me."

"I do not hate you. I only wish to know why you've seen it fit to take me from my duties."

Callen chuckled, his son's lie so bold he would let it speak for itself.

"Do you remember our grandfather?"

"Indeed I do. I remember a kindly old man. A man who was always there for me." The discrepancy went unsaid.

Callen nodded in acknowledgment. "He was that. He was also a fool. A man who left our house so deep in the red that it took me the better part of a decade to dig it back out again."

Vask broke his stare to look at his steak. He began cutting, more for a source of distraction than any need to eat, his father assumed.

"Do you understand the word _nepotism_ , my dear boy?"

Vask froze. His next words were wooden and dull. "I have no wish to inherit this house father. You may do with it as you wish. I will pursue my fortunes in the Imperial Navy."

The words cut deep. "If that is your choice. But it is not your only choice, I assure you." Callen said softly. Vask raised his head, his eyes full of fury, more so than before.

"You _dare?_ You ignore me for fifteen years. And you waltz back into my life as if you have some sort of _right_ to be here, as if you've been trying to do me some sort of _favor_ by leaving me with my whore of a mother?"

"Don't bring your mother into this-"

"-She was a joygirl! You paid her for sex and she begot me, and she used me as leverage to gain a place in one of your mansions. She was a whore in every sense of the word!" Vask spat the words with venom.

"She was! And she was an excellent business woman who knew the bargain we agreed upon and took full advantage of it, just as I would have done-"

"-Which makes you _both_ whores!"

"And to think that it makes any bit of difference only proves you a fool, Vask! Money is what makes the galaxy spin. There are two, and _only_ two forms of interaction in this universe, son. One happens when two parties mutually agree to a bargain, and the second happens when one puts a gun to the other's head and demands services be rendered to him by the threat of force! Every interaction, _every single one_ is defined by these two options. Two friends enjoy each other's company because each mutually agrees that the other is a pleasure to be around. A renter pays his landlord and they mutually agree to a lease. A mercenary puts his life on the line for his employer because one wants protection and the other wants money. These are _voluntary_ interactions between two parties. Your mother and I agreed to a deal. She demanded I uphold my end of the bargain. More than anything, I respect her for that. Meanwhile, you press-gang your servants into working for you by kidnapping them and throwing them into your hold with death threats. Tell me, son, is that your idea of a _mutually agreed upon interaction._ Who's more honorable now? You or your mother?"

Vask opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water.

"You can't-...I don't-...fuck you, _father_!"

"Your mother already did that. It was the time of my life." Callen took a gulp of wine and continued.

"A man is not measured by his kind words or the sentimentality of his bleeding heart, Vask. A man is measured by his actions and his actions alone. I refused to dote upon you. I refused to let you have this house purely by virtue of being born. Is that what you hate me for? My moral code dictates that I give my employees what they have earned. And you have earned something. You personally set foot upon the deck of a Dark Eldar ship, at personal risk of being tortured beyond any pain imaginable, and you wrested it from the hands of your enemy. That is an accomplishment you can be proud of. I'm seconding to you the 271rst Voidborne Regiment. They're the best of the best, vat grown troops who know only combat. As good as the Death Korps of Krieg. You've earned them."

With that Callen threw down his napkin, meal practically untouched, and left the room to leave his son to stare at his steak.

 **Brothers Grimm Fortress Monastery: Rekhel I  
**  
Upon first glance, Itzal would have believed he had entered a Black Templars Monastery. After the initial Black/White color combo hit him, he soon noticed differences. Black and white quartered, with the black squares holding a white cross, while the white squares held a black dog's head. Itzal stared at the heraldry, trying to puzzle out it's relation to the chapter name.

"The hound is the Church Grimm, for which the chapter is named. The Church Grimm is a hound sacrificed at the northern corner of the church to ward away evil spirits. As the Church Grimm wards away evil, so do we." One of the brothers said, noticing the inquisitor's fixation. Itzal nodded, and let the brother lead him on.

The Monastery fortress reminded Itzal of a tomb more than anything else, cobblestone walls and cement floors, torches lined the walls that gave off the unpleasant scent of burned animal fat. The Brothers apparently enjoyed the struggle of primitive living. They longed for harsh environments against which they could test themselves. They were, for lack of a better term, bored with guarding this system. They did indeed keep all their equipment in peak condition. But when faced with a lack of objectives, they burdened themselves to keep from complacency.

Despite the surface temperature, Itzal had to acknowledge that it was quite cool below ground. The whole complex was a massive affair, and the imperial official got the distinct impression that they were leading him in a roundabout fashion. Either this was to impress him, which he found unlikely, or they had no wish for him to see the more critical areas, altogether a more logical conclusion. When he finally sat in the audience room, a massive figure in artificer armor sat upon a throne. A throne atop a plinth. Between the super soldier's impressive stature and the added height of the throne, and the fact that the guest was deep in the heart of the stronghold of some of the fiercest warriors the galaxy had ever seen, almost anybody would have been intimidated.

Itzal, to his credit, was not "Almost anybody".

His guide introduced the authority figure before them. "Chapter Master of the Brothers Grim, Yeth Shuck."

Yeth inclined his head, acknowledging the inquisitor's presence. Itzal waited for the chapter master to say something. When it was plain that the man (loosely speaking) had nothing to say, Itzal introduced himself.

"Itzal Hermenegildo of the Ordos Hereticus, at your service, chapter master. I have come to inquire of the integrity of this system. I most humbly ask your chapter's aid in this matter."

The chapter master flashed a number of hand signals. Itzal was confounded. A chapter master born dumb? His guide chuckled. "It's always worth seeing your faces when you find out he's a mute. I take it you don't know silent speak?"

"You would be correct, battle brother." Itzal said dryly.

"The chapter master extends what help he may, so long as it does not affect the sovereignty of the chapter. We acknowledge your authority, so long as you respect the Emperor's Autonomy granted to the Adeptus Astartes."

Itzal bowed respectfully. "Your autonomy is seen, chapter master. I have noted that the imperial tithe of gene-seed has been fulfilled faithfully by your chapter, and have no suspicions as to the loyalty of your order."

The chapter master waved his hand dismissively, a most human gesture coming from the immortal.

"That being said, the chaos incursion to the Galactic East is most troublesome. As I have no wish to lure the Archenemy to our forge worlds, it would be most prudent to take action to ensure the purity and integrity of the system."

At this, the chapter master began jerking and shuddering. Itzal looked to his guide, who seemed unperturbed by this. Plowing ahead, the inquisitor continued.

"Knowing this, I have constructed a bold plan of action to purge the hives of taint. It will be a most arduous task, but there is no reason as to why it shouldn't be done at this critical stage. Even as we speak- _is something the matter, chapter master!?_ "

This last came as the jerking and shuddering increased in violence and intensity. Itzal looked to his left to find his guide biting his knuckle as to restrain himself from laughing. He did a double take at the chapter master, who was removing his helmet to reveal a face streaming tears of humor.

"You're a decade late and a lasgun short, dear inquisitor. We've been purging this system quietly of heretics for the last twenty years!"

For the first time since entering the system, Itzal found himself truly speechless. The chapter master began signing, and his guide began translating. As they did so, the chapter master got to his feet and began leading them down the hall. Itzal had to break into an embarrassing run to keep up with the super humans.

 _:::Our chapter does things a bit differently from the standard Codex Astartes. We are constantly on the lookout for new recruits. As our world is barren, we began recruiting from the hives among the forgeworlds. In our quest, we noticed something. Something truly disheartening. Youths, falling to the sway of the archenemy. We sought no help from the inquisition, as we had faith in our abilities and our training. These youths were misguided souls. Young men bucking and chafing under the yoke of heavy-handed governance of your clumsy planetary officials. It is important to keep the populace's eyes on the Emperor, dear inquisitor. But you fail to adequately motivate them to do so, relying on crude measures of force. These youngsters will not be held down with whips and power mauls, no. You can only redirect their energies to more productive tasks. That said, we have devised our own solution to the heresy problem:::_

Coming to a sort of conference room, the leader of the chapter gestured to several maps, detailing the various hives of the system. The maps were a riot of colors and emblems. Two he recognized straight away, the symbol of the adeptus arbites and the emblem of local law enforcement agencies. Other emblems were drawn in strange esoteric symbols that the Inquisitor had never seen before, and others still were drawn childishly, the emblems seeming to come from a teen's homework dataslate as doodles done in the off-time.

 _:::We have various clans and gangs under our control in the underhive. Where your arbites are too busy with the so called "important matters", we uplift the youth to do their duty as faithful servants of the God Emperor. Where the Local law is too timid to tread, our hivers patrol the areas regularly to keep them safe and clean from heretic scum:::_

Itzal was mentally off his footing. "How...?"

 _:::We adapted our scouts to serve as force multipliers. Eleven man teams, an initiate and ten neophytes each, to establish contact with long standing hive gangs. After usurping the gang-leaders power through a slow game subterfuge, we've managed to install our teams as the primary leadership of the largest gangs. This was done by undermining the authority of the Gang Leadership, by exposing their iniquities and their ineptitude. Youngsters, as restless as they are, were only to happy to tear apart their own leaders once their failings were brought to light. Once we established ourselves in the largest gangs, we began expanding our powerbase. Now the truants and the trouble makers are enforcers of the Brothers Grimm, their families pledged as chapter serfs. But this brings us to a problem:::_

"What kind of problem?" Itzal inquired, inwardly breathing a sigh of relief to find out his presence was a complete waste of time.

 _:::Well, as we've pointed out, the youngsters are restless. Things are getting far too peaceful in this system for their liking. It's like an Orkish Waaagh. They need an outlet for that energy. They're looking for adventure. They want excitement. Which is why we're initiating a crusade:::_

 **Renegade** **Gal'leath battleship Hann'ie: Deep space to the South of Rekhel**

Hw'ann was still getting over not being called "Shas" in accordance with caste, still getting over not being identified by his job. Still getting over creating and using a personalized name for himself, not something that had been assigned by an Elder or a Noble. His head was positively clouded when he reached the port side security office.

He liked the name Hw'ann. Liked the way it rolled off the tongue, liked the short, sweet nature of the word. He could have said it all day. _Hw'ann. Hw'ann...Hw'ann-Hw,ann-Hw,ann._ He almost bumped into his Tarellian lieutenant just thinking about the new name he had chosen for himself. Embarrassed, the warrior stood straight and offered his superior a sharp salute.

All security was privatized now, meaning there was much more incentive to improve. Better work meant more pay. More pay meant better armor and better weapons. Yes, merely _adequate_ no longer sufficed among the tau warriors. Many former fire warriors had dropped the profession altogether, leaving it to the more experienced mercenaries of the fleet or moving instead to the Air Caste. Auxiliaries had been working the market-based system for years and were more familiar with it, daunting the warriors of the tau empire who were leery of leaving their fates to the highest bidder.

 _But it's not the Air Caste anymore, is it? Just like we don't have a Fire Caste. What do you call it, then?And_ _if Tau is a reference to the Greater Good, does that mean we should stop using the name Tau?_ he wondered. Bah, a pedantic thought. Everybody had been using the name "Tau" to describe them for so long that using any other word was...alien. It was _strange._

Hw'ann raised his arms, letting the drones scan him from top to bottom. He nodded at the drones, and one of them bobbed in return. The drones had their own rudimentary intelligence, and Hw'ann liked to believe that they were capable of being as fond of him as he was for them.

"Kid!" The Tarellian barked at him. The young tau saluted again. "It's Hw'ann now, sir."

"Right. Well, my name hasn't damn well changed, your caste system, or your new lack of one, isn't my concern. But knowing that, you're now going by Tarellian rank. Which mean's you're a _Ki-enn._ A brave. A sergeant is a _Sai-enn_ , a warrior. Your lieutenant, (in this case, me) is a guide or a-"

"Guide?" Hw'ann interrupted, his confusion temporarily overcoming his formality.

"Guide." His superior confirmed. "On Tarellian Hunts, the Guide (or _Sh'wey)_ is the one responsible for the pack's direction as he knows the woods the best, a position of honor. The name has been adapted for our modern times. We net your jobs, we bid for small-time contracts within the security firm. We're the ones deciding where you're going. We're guides."

"Oh." Hw'ann absorbed this with some degree of both shock and embarrassment. In the Fire Caste, they treated mercenaries as just another piece of the monolithic Tau empire. It had never occurred to him that they might have a culture of their own. A different way of looking at things. Now that he thought about it, it seemed silly of him. Of course they had their own system. To think that they were just _Tau Auxiliaries_ was naive and presumptuous.

"And to start, my name is Musco'Quen. Or Musko for short. All this will be uploaded to your HUD...in time." Hw'ann sensed a bit of hesitation there.

"In time, sir? Is there some trouble?" Hw'ann asked.

Musco snorted in frustration. "The Firm is improving our systems with all sorts of fancy software and automated systems from your water sculptors...your... _water caste._ I haven't even figured out the half of it yet, and it's driving all our techs crazy trying to get it all settled. Those security drones were just one of myriad upgrades. It'll take some time to get everything sorted."

"Maybe I could help, sir? My previous occupation was cataloging equipment at the armory. I know it's not much, but I know my way around a computer pretty well. " Hw'ann offered.

Musco gave him a long look, and Hw'ann soon got rather uncomfortable. He didn't know Tarellian customs. Had he said something wrong?

"You'd do that? A blueblood like you?" His lieutenant asked.

"It was just a suggestion. If you don't want to-"

"-No, we want to. Hell, we _need_ to. Progress with the computer systems has been glacial. If have to wait much longer, we'll be truly fragged. Our contracts are all running through the computer system now. I don't want to say we bought a hunk of junk, but it's beginning to look like it...I'm just surprised you offered. Most Fire Warriors believe that they _can't_ help with anything that's not directly relevant to combat. As if the muscles in their arms have disabled the brains in their heads."

"I'll do what I can sir. Nothing wrong with helping where I can." Hw'ann assured him.

"Alright, go down the aft hall and take a left on the third door. All our computer folks are holed up there. I'm recommending you for a raise in stipend."

Hw'ann hurried to the hall his lieutenant had just pointed to, but was stopped when Musco called his name again. He did an about face, looking puzzled. "Yes sir?"

"Why'd you stick around, anyways? All you bluebloods are running off to become flyboys and such. Why not leave the grunt work to us?"

Hw'ann shrugged. "I dunno. I always liked the idea of being Fire Caste. I always liked the idea of being on the ground where the action is. When I found out we we...I mean, the fire caste, was being liquidated... I began looking for the next closest thing, and that's here in private security."

"Well, a word of advice in the private sector: Keep doing what you just did. Step forward. Get noticed. Put in your hours and get your hands dirty. It looks good, it makes the bosses happy. Just make sure to get what you're worth out of them. They'll screw you if you let them."

"Thank you sir, I'll keep it in mind."

* * *

Four hours later, Hw'ann was still working out all the kinks in the computer system, but at least he knew why. They had uploaded an automated system but had not bothered with a rudimentary AI to make sure that all the downloads were, in fact, compatible. The automated system, with no AI to discern which programs worked and which did not, simply downloaded everything. Needless to say, many of the programs were not actually compatible with the system's current format, and as a result the system was crashing every hour or so as a program sent nonsensical jumbles of data with commands that made no sense.

Hw'ann had been on the telecommunicator for an hour and a half now with a friend in the Software Conglomerate trying to sort out and delete all the incompatible programs. Hw'ann took a sip of some sort of new product the Argonian Food Company was shipping in. It was a sweet, brown, and fizzy liquid. Something adapted from Gue'vesa culture to fit the Tau. Hw'ann had tasted the Gue'vesa stuff, and had promptly spit it out: the humans had a much less sensitive taste pallet, and the flavor was overpowering. But somebody in the water caste had the bright idea of diluting the flavors to more tolerable levels, and Hw'ann had to admit the result actually tasted pretty good.

There was a thump on the door frame as Musco entered.

"Hey, I saw Jax and Elom were out sorting boxes in the loading ramp. You need any help in here?"

"Nope sir, I sent them there. This is a one-person job, and it's tedious as it gets. I figured they could be doing something more productive with their time, so I sent them to the loading ramp to sort inventory." He said nervously.

Musco opened his mouth, and snapped it shut again. Hw'ann waited silently, he didn't know Tarellian body language. Had he overstepped himself?

"So you've just been in here this whole time? Doing what?" Musko asked.

Hw'ann explained the problem and everything he had been doing to fix it. Musko blinked. "Should have known."

Hw'ann sat there, dumbfounded. "Sir, the company you bought this software from...what a bunch of crooks."

Musko swiveled his head sharply to look at him with one eye. "Crooks, why?"

"They let you buy this whole software system, but they didn't let you know you ought to have an AI? What kind of savages would let you struggle with such an easily solvable problem?"

"You really are a blueblood, aren't you?" Musko said. Hw'ann shifted uncomfortably.

"You keep using that word, sir. Does it mean Tau?"

"Yes and no. Blueblood _used_ to mean Tau. Now the word has evolved. Now it means stupid, naive, and gullible."

Hw'ann stiffened. Musko continued.

"Your belief in the Greater Good...it's something us Auxiliaries have been laughing at for some time. It's a nice concept. It's quaint. But that's not the way the galaxy works. In this galaxy, you look after yourself, and you look after your friends. Anybody else, you really just have to assume that they can take care of themselves. Of course the Tech Syndicate let us download a system without the necessary AI. They're not going to waste their time checking up on a complete stranger to make sure they know what they're doing. You think they don't have their own problems, as urgent as ours are? They're too busy looking after their own affairs to be concerned with us."

"But they could have told us!"

"Yes. Yes they could have. But they assumed we knew what we were doing, because that's the de facto assumption. I'm not going to go sticking my nose into all of my client's business just to make sure that they're doing ok. That would be preposterous. I've got something in the realm of fifty lives to watch over. I don't have time for babysitting strangers, and neither do you."

Just then, the telecommunicator rang. Still struggling with what Musko had just told him, he fumbled with his headpiece "H-hello? Oh, hey." He turned to Musko "It's my friend, the one that's helping with the system."

Without a word, Musko snatched the headpiece from Hw'ann and put it to his own face. "-Hey!" the young fire warrior protested.

Ignoring him, Musko growled into the communicator. "Hey, you know your way around tech? Yeah?... Uh-huh... What are they paying you over there?...That come with additional benefits, like medical treatments?...If I gave you a better offer, would you be willing to drop that job and work for us? Yeah, we're hiring...we have plenty of non-combatant positions available, I can promise you won't need to touch a plasma gun in your life...When can we expect you?...Great. Welcome aboard. You still willing to help my employee for the next couple hours?...Alrighty. Here he is."

Musko tossed the comm back to Hw'ann. He jabbed an accusing finger at the offending computer system and told his worker; "Five cycles from now you won't have to put up with this garbage. Thanks for getting it sorted out, kid. I'll have somebody bring you some food."

 **Authors note:** _As always, thank you for reading, though I am sure I have enraged many tau fans by writing about them with my limited knowledge. I have a great appreciation for the Tau simply for the "Rule of Cool"._

 _Arguments about "Weeaboo Space Communists" aside, they're legit cool if you've gotten bored of the Imperium's Diesel Punk atmosphere. However, arguments of not being grimdark hold no traction for me. When you realize that the Tau are Games Workshop shoehorning their political beliefs into the Warhammer setting; (ever notice that Mag Uruk Thraka sounds an awful lot like Margret Thatcher?) it could ruin the series once you realize all the other factions are simply very, very fleshed out political strawmen._

 _Of course, the fan base didn't like this idea very much, and began screeching that the Tau weren't grimmdark enough. So GW did what any political satirist does when asked to find flaws with their own belief system, and turned the Tau Ethereals into mustache twirling cartoon villains. Take it all with a grain of salt, everybody lets their cultural views color their works. I don't fault the folks at GW, they believe what they believe, and it shows in their works._

 _Any help with the Tau would be most welcome, as I have no codexes and warhammer40k wikia manages to crash Adobe every time I try to use it. That being said, I'm forced to go by Lexicanum, which is sparse._


	4. 4: In the Grimdark Future

**Vet-Ala Craftworld: Deep Space to the South East of Rekhel.  
** Onshin was enraged. Enraged at Ynetera's...undignified path. His craftworld's honor would not be sullied by letting brigands and thieves such as the Dark Eldar have the final word. The Dark Eldar were different. Yes, there were other, more pressing threats that faced the Eldar. But such was not the point.

The Orks were weapons, and could not understand what they did, much less change the way they behaved. They had been genetically programed to do as they did. They could not rouse Onshin to ire.

The Necrontyre, in those days of old, had been jealous of the Eldar. And who could blame them for being jealous of the most graceful, beautiful beings in the galaxy? Onshin pitied them, for they truly grasped how superior the Eldar were, yet could do nothing about it.

The humans, their genetically enhanced brethren aside, were only just barely better than the Orcs, their primitive biological drives motivating them to forever be blind to the bigger picture, and thus always be destroying each other for the sake of personal betterment. They were annoying, yet also amusing. It was like watching the Harlequins put on a comedy show of oafs squabbling with each other, made all more hysterical by the fact that the monkeigh took themselves utterly seriously. They were beneath Onshin's anger, not even worthy of it.

The Tau were akin to children, wide-eyed younglings full of curiosity and wonder. Their Ethereals led them with crude manipulations, if rather effective ones. It was a pitiable affair that they were shackled so. In a different universe, they could have been vassals of the Eldar. Onshin could not despise them.

The Tyranids were a horror from beyond the fringes of the galaxy, yet in their own way commanded respect. They were fearsome, and could very well be unstoppable. As much as Onshin wanted to hate them, he saw that they were consumed and shackled by biological drive. They were monsters, and excelled at being so, and it was quite possible that they would consume the galaxy. Onshin, more than hating them, feared and respected them.

But then there were the Dark Kindred.

His progenitors who had literally had everything, _everything_ at their fingertips, and had degenerated into something more savage than the Orcs, more blind than the Monkeigh, and more petty and jealous than the Necrontyre had ever been. But despite it all, they perversely mocked everything that they had once been as if their new place in the galaxy was _superior_ then that of the Eldar? There was nothing the Great Enemy could have created that was more of an affront to the First Born. They were responsible for the Fall, yet irresponsibly fled from their Fate. They were a living injustice. They had been ascended beings beyond reproach, and had thrown it away for what? To live like rats in the webway, feeding off the galaxy as it died. And worse, they condemned those innocent among the Craftworlds to live as paupers and refugees, not just from their former empire, but from death itself. The Dark Eldar deserved a thousand deaths each, deserved every torture that the Great Enemy would inevitably reap upon them.

This was not about any threat that the Dark Eldar posed to the Jusai-Iex craftworld. It was about the fact that the Dark Eldar even existed _at all!_ And as long as his craftworld existed, they would seek to wipe the stain of their dark cousins from the galaxy. If Ynetera could not see that, then she lacked proper pride in her heritage. In fact, in consorting with Post-humans, by allowing them aboard her craftworld, he knew she had tragically lost herself. Ynetera was confused. She was looking for answers to the future by looking to the inherently flawed; trying to find perfection in something that, by it's very nature, would forever be imperfect.

And yet Onshin could not fault her, for he himself was boarding a craftworld belonging to those who had lost themselves even before the Fall, those who claimed that the Eldar should have to struggle like common beasts in the wild for their very existence. He would be consorting with those who lived only to struggle lived only to breed, fight, and die like any other animal in the galaxy. A craftworld of necromancers who rejected their right to inherit the galaxy, who spit on their estate.

But he needed the tomb raiders. He needed their wraiths and their numbers if this ambush were to succeed. The Flensed Corpse Kabal would not come alone. No Kabal ever did. A raid seemed to be some degenerate, debauched party that the Dark Eldar invited friends and foes alike to partake in. A system-wide harvest of thirty billion souls...would bring much more than just the Flensed Corpse.

And so he needed these...these vagabonds.

The Vet-Ala was not strictly a craftworld in the sense that it had never been named as such. It had been built at a time when nobody could have ever dreamed of the Fall. The closest analogy was a monastary, a purposely isolated settlement where one might forsake the beauty of the Eldar Empire for a more ascetic and rigorous lifestyle. At the height of the Empire, before the Slow Descent, they had been mocked. An obsessive warrior cult in need of a war to fight. Sentinels standing silent vigil against a phantom menace that would never materialize. So they had been called at the apex of the Eldar Empire.  
But the Vet-Ala had never claimed to foresee the Fall. Which made their reaction to it all the more stunning. They had not been shocked. They had not been horrified. The best that could be said was that they were _mildly surprised._ As if the entirety of their empire being swallowed by the Great Enemy was no more consequential than an uninvited guest appearing at their door.

It was for this reason that they were considered lost before the fall. It was not a reaction to the fall, for they had been dead inside long before that. They had stripped themselves of their identity before She-Who-Thirsts had forced it upon the rest of them. And even after the fact, they had watched whole craftworlds, the equivalent to refugees fleeing their burning empire, be destroyed. And did they cry out? Did they howl in outrage or wail in despair?

No. They were stones. Uncaring and unfeeling, they shrugged and let it happen.

The term _Vet-Ala_ meant roughly _Dead Folk._ For that's what they were. Dead folk who utilized a more literal form of dead folk. Corpses raising yet more corpses.

The whole ship was a Ghostship, the most massive of it's kind ever created, a craftworld-sized vessel utilizing soulstones to crew it. And yet they had more than enough living to do the task, and simply chose not to. On Vet-Ala, one pledged their service for eternity. So it had always been, even before the fall. Utilizing soul stones, the Vet-Ala had interred thousands of souls in this manner. And they called on them with no more reverence than calling pets or beasts of burden.

If Onshin could bring these lost souls against the Dark Eldar, there would be no better allies. He would not risk others in his personal crusade. This was the path of Jusai-Iex, and they chose it. They would only try to sway ones such as these, ones already Dead with no hope of return to the land of the living, to help them see this through. They would not tread the path of the Dark Eldar, who brought their neighbors down with them whether they wished it or not. This was the path of Jusai-Iex, and they were accountable. They were honorable. This was their duty, and no one but they would see it through.

 **Ork Killkroozer Shiprekka: High Orbit above Ekat II  
**  
The Gretchin in front of Slavesnagga Da Masta was cowering, feebly trying to hold the purse behind him. He had had a black shirt, standard to the Lotzgrotz Krew. But he also had a purple bandana wrapped around his scalp, probably what made him so dead sneaky. Slavesnagga had caught him fleeing down the hall, obviously in terror. The sneaky little git had stolen some teef, and now he was on the run for his life.

Any other ork may have simply krumped him and taken the teef. But Slavesnagga was not "Any uvva Ork". Slavesnagga was a Runtherd. Slavesnagga had become kaptin of the Shiprekka by knowing how to make other gitz do what he wanted. At roughly three meters in height, Slavesnagga looked surprisingly less intimidating than one might think for an Ork Warboss, mostly because of a lack of bioniks. Slavesnagga was a former Snakebite, had left the klan because he knew that the old ways, while good, were not all that there was. But the Snakebites did have one thing right: squig and runt agrikulture. With nothing but the brain in his head, and the grot prod at his side, he had become the kaptin of the shiprekka. Well, brains, a grot prod and an awful zoggin' _lot_ of grots. But one didn't get places by krumping grots (Well, there was that one time, but that was an exception). Which is why he was talking to this little runt in front of him with his stolen bag of teef.

"Wots ya name, grot?" Slavesnagga asked quietly.

The gretchin stared at him, possibly uncomprehending what he had just heard.

"Go on, grot. Ya name. Gimme ya name." This would be the last time Slavesnagga said it quietly. The grot, most fortunately, stuttered out it's name.

"M-muk. It's Muk, ser."

Good. Slavesnagga wouldn't have to krump this one.

"'Ey der, Muk. Ya got some teef der, do yeh?" Slavesnagga pointed to the purse it was trying to hide.

"I didn't steel it, ser! 'Onist!" whimpered the runt.

"Kourse yeh didn't, kourse yeh didn't..." Slavesnagga assured him, smiling. "But b'teen you an' me...I gots a sekret. Can ya keep a sekret, grot?" Slavesnagga whispered to him.

Muk looked glanced from side to side, unsure of what this might have to do with his teef or with stealing. He gulped, and nodded. Slavesnagga grinned, and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially.

"Uruk da mekboy. He used ta wear yella, he did. Likes his bitz, see? Likes 'is teef. Giv'm a load a teef, I bet he'll make ya a noice little grot blasta. Somefin' so ya don' have to get too close to da humies an' wotnot, roight? But itz jus' 'tween you an' me. Got it?" Slavesnagga said, knowing full well the sneaky runt would sell the so-called _secret_ to every grot he came across.

Muk's eyes darted about in a most shifty manner. "Yeh. Sekret. I got it" he said.

"Good." The ork said, withdrawing with a grin. "Now get ya gone! Get ya'self a noice blasta an' get back to work!"

With that, Slavesnagga swatted the runt on the backside, sending him soaring five meters.

"Why'd ya do dat boss?" asked a young kommando, coming out of the shadows. Slavesnagga wheeled around. His name was Sog, Slavesnagga remembered.

"So da grotz could get demselves some blasta's, ya dumb git."

"But why ya carin' if da grotz 'ave blastas? Dey's jus grotz."

"Ya know Sog, I nevva thought o' that. I guess dey iz jus' grotz."

Slavesnagga began chuckling. Nothing more than a giggle at first, then it turned into a guffaw. Knowing that whatever the boss thought was funny had to be funny (And not wanting to get krumped), Sog began laughing too. That was, before Slavesnagga grabbed him by the throat and threw him into the wall.

"Who helps make da tanks, ya dumb git!?"

"Wot!?" Sog asked, bewildered.

Slavesnagga grabbed Sog by the hair and began pounding his face into the deck.

"I"

 ***SLAM***

"SAID"

 ***SLAM***

"WHO" 

***SLAM***

"HELPS

 ***SLAM***

"MAKE" 

***SLAM***

"DEM"

* **SLAM***

"TANKS!?"

"Mek boyz! Mek boyz do, Boss!"

"WRONG ANSWA, GIT! TRY AGAIN!"

 ***SLAM***

"WHO DO DA MEK BOYZ 'AVE _WIV 'EM_ WHO HELPS MAKES DA TANKS!?"

"I don' get it! Whaddya mean!?"

 ***SLAM***

"WHO, _UNDER WATCH_ OF DA MEK BOYZ, HAULS ALL DA BITS AND DA GUBBINZ AND FETCHES DA TOOLS AND WOTNOT!? ****

"Da Mek Boyz 'ave da grots do it Boss!"

"ROIGHT! AN' WHO HAULS DA AMMO, FEEDZ DA SQUIGS, MAKES DA BEER, FIXES DINNA!?"

"Da grotz do, Boss!"

"AN' WHO MANZ DA SPONSONS, DA KATAPULTS, DA KANNONS, DA LOBBA'S, DA KILLA KANS, DA GROTZOOKAS, DA GROTBOMMS AN' DA GROT TANKS!?"

"Da grotz do, Boss!"

"AN' WHO KRUMPS DA 'UMIES IN SPOTS TOO SMALL FO' AN ORK, RUSHES TRU DA 'UMIE MINEFIELDS, AND TAKES DA BULLETS TO TEST DA STREMF OF A 'UMIE POSISHUN!?

"Da grotz do, Boss!"

"SEEMZ LIKE DOSE GROTZ DO A ZOGGIN AWFUL LOTTA STUFF, DONNIT, SOG!?"

"Yes Boss! Dey do, Boss!"

"WHERE'S AN ORK KLAN WIFFOUT IT'S GROTZ!?"

"Deys' dead, Boss!"

"Roight! Ya get it!? Lemme tell yeh somfin' you zoggin git! Next time some Ork tellz you dat teef is the kurrency of da orks, don' believe 'im. Teef is nuffink. NUFFINK! _Grotz_ is da kurrency of da orks! Da more grotz a klan has, better off dey iz! 'An who haz da most grotz?"

"We do, Boss!"

Slavesnagga allowed Sog to get to his feet. But the lesson was not yet over. As all Slaverz knew, to get a git to do what you wanted, it required more than just force. It required kunnin', and letting the git think that he got what he wanted when he did something you wanted him to do.

"Roight! Lotzgrotz klan haz da most grotz 'kuz we's smarter den ovva orks. We don' krump our grotz because grotz is what makes life go round. And wivvout life, you can't have a good waagh, now can yeh? Ya git. Take care of ya grotz, ya grotz take care a you! An if ya grotz take care of you, you is in a zoggin good place me friend. So do me a favor, a solid, wouldja? Help me make a waaagh. Don't krump them zoggin grotz every time one looks at you funny. Just smack em or somfin. A grot who's ded don't do nuffiink for you. A grot who's been smacked can still haul ammo an' wotnot, but a grot who's been krumped ain't doin' nuffink for da krew or da klan, kay? An if da grotz in ovva klans hear that life in our klan is betta, dey come here an' we get more grotz, see? And da more grotz we got..."

"-Da better off we iz. Roight boss. No krumpin grots if I can help it."

"Good. You learnin'. And 'cuz you is learnin, I'ma have somefink for you, da next time I seeya. Somfink good. Got it, Sog?"

"Got it Boss."

"Good. Now getcha gone and find me some more ways to kill 'umies. I gotta check on da fungus beer I had won o dem runts fetching me, an I'm 'ungry as 'ell." Slavesnagga said, patting the beaten Kommando on the back affectionately.

 **Tau Gal'leath battleship Hann'ie: Deep space to the South of Rekhel**

Callen Hesker shifted nervously. This was his first meeting with the Tau. As far as he knew, there weren't even supposed to be any Tau this far west. It was frankly rather alarming. Two traitors flanked him, wearing xenos armor. Callen couldn't get over it. Sure, he understood the Imperium wasn't as nice as it could be. But to openly betray the God Emperor...was unthinkable. Callen was by no means a pious man, but he _was_ a practical one. To join a fledgling alien empire wasn't just traitorous, it was outright _stupid._ Did they think their xenos cohorts would protect them from the machinations of Chaos, the ravenous hunger of the Tyranids, or the warmongering of the Orks? None but the Imperium could. Wherever his sympathies lay, no matter how draconian the Imperium became, he accepted it all based on practicality.

The surroundings were a creamy white, a pristine ship if Callen had ever seen one. Xenos of all shapes and sizes surrounded him. Luckily, Callen had changed into something less conspicuous than his rogue trader outfit, a flowing white robe gifted from the Water caste had sufficed to ensure half the aliens here didn't murder him on general principal. Galg, Tarellians, Hrenians...Callen was walking in a hive of veritable anti-imperium sentiment.

As on most diplomatic efforts, Callen came unarmed. Diplomacy required a certain amount of boldness and trust. Callen could be killed at any moment by anyone around him. That's what his job required of him. You couldn't reap rewards without placing yourself at risk, and in many cases (Though certainly not all), greater risks allowed greater rewards. Such as now. Meeting with a Tau Ethereal would not have been possible had he brought his own escort or deigned it fitting that he should come armed. It was a risk he was willing to take to look an Ethereal in the face and talk in person so that the needs of the Rekhel system might be met.

Finally, they came to a conference room where a delicate grey skinned Tau greeted them. The Ethereal bowed deeply, holding two hands in front of him and placing them a vertical span apart, as if holding an invisible sphere on energy in front of his solar plexus.

"Greetings, I am Ge'on G'alt, overseer of the Plasma Energy Syndicate and leader of the An'Caa."

Callen put on his warmest smile and extended his hand gingerly. He was not disappointed when Ge'on grasped it delicately. "A strange greeting, the touching of hands. What does it mean, if I may ask?" The Tau asked.

Callen paused for a moment. He was glad he knew something of esoteric history. "It is a confirmation of trust, I believe, derived from an early custom where each man grasped the other by the wrist. The wrist was a common place to hide small weapons. By allowing the other to grasp your wrist, you showed you had no weapons, and therefor meant him no harm. What does yours mean?"

Ge'on smiled. "It is a symbol of warmth in the spirit, meaning that the sight of the guest has filled the host with happiness." Callen nodded. "So is it proper that I return such a greeting, or is there another symbol that should be expressed on my part?" Small tidbits of xenos customs might help him in the future, for one never could tell when they might be useful. "It is indeed customary to return the greeting, but I forgive your ignorance, and I will not bother you with such trivialities now." Callen nodded.

"So you're an Ethereal?" Callen asked, more for filler than anything else, proceeding carefully at this point. His heart stopped at the next answer.

"No. I am not. I am a former Ethereal, and I trod such a path when our fleet still followed the Greater Good. We now follow a different philosophy. It came to my attention that my approach to leadership was upsetting many others of my caste, and they attempted to have me infested with a sentient neural worm that would have enslaved me."

Callen stumbled over his words. Suddenly their appearance this far west made all too much sense. They were refugees from the Tau empire. But how did this affect the negotiations? What did one say to that? What _could_ you say to that? _Oh, I'm sorry that they sought to put a worm in your head. You have my condolences that your government turned on you and wanted to turn you into a flesh puppet. That sucks._

"I-...well...that...that is most unfortunate, my friend." He said lamely.

"Is it? I do not believe so. It showed me a truth, and it removed a shroud from my eyes about the true intentions of the Ethereal Caste System. It is not entirely unlike your Imperium, where if one does not do expressly as ordered they are coerced against their will."

Callen froze. As far as negotiations went, this one was proceeding rather poorly. Ge'on filled the silence.

"My apologies if I have offended you. I thought most acknowledged the methods that the Imperium has at it's disposal."

"None taken." Callen said, quite truthfully. "Governments are what they are. That much can certainly be said with candor, and I will not fault you for it. That said, I was wondering if we might engage in a trade..."

The Xenos's mood instantly shifted as Ge'on visibly became energized. "A trade? This interests me. The An'Caa are always open to trade, provided you have something we want."

"Well, I was hoping..." Callen took a deep breath. This could be tricky. He wasn't asking for materiel here, he was asking for lives. Other races held life in much higher esteem than than the Imperium did. "I was hoping for some assistance. We will be engaging the Orks in warfare soon, but we will need help."

"Mercenary work, then? This would be a most tricky affair. Since our schism from the Tau, we have divided into many labor groups, and many of those unions _do_ offer much in the way of arms. However, many of them...dislike the Imperium of Man."

Callen had to bite back a chuckle. They _disliked_ the Imperium of Man. An understatement if ever he heard one. It was much like saying the Emperor of Mankind was currently _indisposed_.

"Exactly. Which is why I need to go through a third party. A most respected member of the community."

"Whatever I may do, they will not march beside you. You must understand that."

"I know. But they won't need to. We need a distraction. We wish for you to send a fleet far to the north and a little to the west to draw the Orks to a battle there while we engage them South of you. We need to draw off some of their numbers, just for a short while, that we might establish a foothold. Can it be done?"

"You would be dividing your forces." Ge'on said cautiously. "I am no expert in warfare my friend, but from everything I have heard, this would not be a wise move."

"It's not my choice. Either you march separately from us, or you do not march at all, and my forces will be diminished while leaving the full brunt of the Orks to fall upon us."

Ge'on nodded, understanding the problem.

"You said this would be a trade. This is a very risky move, and we could find ourselves overwhelmed. What would you have to offer?"

"Precious minerals from the Rekhel system." Callen replied, pulling out a dataslate and handing it to the xenos. "It's a fortune, and it's all we can spare. I'm afraid I can give no more than you find in that manifest in front of you without cutting into our tithes."

Ge'on gave the dataslate a cursory scan, scrolling down the list of materiel, before setting it down.

"Might I suggest a counter offer?"

"I am very sorry, but the offer in front of you is all that we can spare. We can give no more."

"Oh, but I am not sure you would be giving any more. In fact, you may be giving less. I would not know. It is a most unusual offer I have in mind. Unprecedented, in fact."

Callen leaned back, his interest piqued. "Go on."

"Your ships travel through the warp. And we utilize the warp ourselves, to some extent. But we do not have your capabilities. Might I suggest you hand over one of your navigators, that we may study him?"

 **Fortress Monastery of the Hallowed Vexillatio: Rekhel III  
**  
Just as the Fortress Monastery of the Brothers Grimm was unexpectedly cool, the Hallowed Vexillatio kept it's underground (Or, rather, Under-Ice) hideaway was quite warm. Quite unlike the Brothers Grimm, they kept a much more civilized appearance here. The walls, floors, and ceiling were a quite modern affair, brightly lit and no doubt very well insulated. Rich red carpet adorned the floors. It didn't match with the white walls, but white was a very neutral color, going with most others in equally mediocre fashion. The furnishings were high grade plastics of cream color. On the way in to the audience chamber, Itzal had noticed a large number of menials under watch of Tech Marines, hard at work at their stations of various databanks. Overall, the Fortress Monastery had the feel of a modern office building. Various threats were analyzed, cataloged, measured, and dealt with in purely bureaucratic fashion. The Hallowed Vexillatio took to it's duty to the God-Emperor in an extremely diligent, if secular, manner.

The audience chamber hosted a large round table, currently empty save for Itzal, Alecto, Chapter Master Acaeus Hypasus and his aide, a scout marine who's name tag read: Itylus. Both Chapter Master and aide wore fatigues that would not have looked out of place on a Cadian trooper, though upsized to fit the massive bulk of the Godlings. For this audience, Itzal had donned a heavy fur coat more fitting to the clime of the planet, and had ordered Alecto to as well. However, both their coats now stood upon a rack at the entrance to the Monastery, courtesy of the hospitable residents. The table at which they currently sat was one of the few wooden furnishings in the entire building, however both the guest's legs dangled in a somewhat undignified manner, as both the chairs and table had been built for those much larger and taller.

Itzal looked at Acaeus with a tired expression on his face. Acaeus stared at the Inquisitor with horrified disbelief. Alecto drew in her notepad.

"Orks. The system to the east is crawling with Chaos, forgeworlds lost, hives corrupted with taint, the Archenemy rallies even as we speak, and our archaic desert hounds decide it is best that we focus on the ORKS!?"

"Heretical" the aide muttered with shock. Itzal looked at him sharply.

"The Brothers Grimm may be termed misguided, or even blind. But their geneseed is pure, being received a scant two years ago and being tested thoroughly. Unless they have been corrupted in record time, they have no taint. Heresy is no word to be thrown about idly when speaking of an Astartes Chapter." Itzal warned.

"But negligence can be it's own heresy." Acaeus said grimly. "Dividing our forces at such a time as this would be foolhardy in the extreme. The whole system may fall, and quickly."

"Quickly indeed. But even quicker if we degenerate into a fullblown civil war."

"A civil war? Surely-"

"The Sisters of the Ebon Shroud and the Burning Heart stand with the Brothers Grimm."

The chapter master's mouth dropped in absolute dumbfounded bewilderment.

"The Sisters forsake a chance to burn heretics and scum? Will wonders never cease? Has the whole universe been turned on it's ear?"

Itzal's retort was left in his throat as his mystic derailed the whole conference.

"Orks!" Alecto said suddenly, jumping like a startled doe and seemingly realizing that a conversation was being held in the room only just now. "Orks! We're talking about orks! My aunt was taken by orks!"

The room was momentarily silenced by the distraction. The chapter master's aide chuckled, recovering first. "Then it's more than likely that her head was crushed by a rock." He said to the insane psyker.

"Was not! She's fine! She is! I bet the Orks are more scared of her than she is of them!" She complained loudly, her tone bearing resemblance to a child being called a name in the schoolyard.

"Shut up, just please shut up." Itzal said in an exhausted tone, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Thankfully, Alecto seemed to take heed, and went back to doodling, but not before muttering _"She's fine"_ one last time in a sullen voice.

"Anyways, the _fineness_ of certain orkish prisoners aside, I can scantly believe what I'm hearing. What is the motive behind this...this idiocy of taking the fight to the Orks before reclaiming what is rightfully ours?" Acaeus asked.

"The stated reason is to " _break in"_ the massive warhost that the Brothers Grimm have established, cutting their teeth on an easier enemy and allowing them to test the mettle of potential candidates to receive geneseed. The Brothers Grimm believe it would be quite the waste to pit their host of hivers against one another in a bloodbath simply to determine the most fit to bear the gifts of the Emperor. Alternatively, pitting them against the forces of chaos might corrupt the whole batch of of them, leaving no candidates left to bolster their numbers. So they have decided to engage the Orks. As an added bonus, they believe that we are far too reliant on food shipments from out of system. Should our supply lines be cut, the whole system could starve. They believe that if we could take the Ekat system to the North, we would be able to create an Agriworld on Ekat II while simultaneously thinning the population of the Rekel system. Thinning the population serves the purpose that if disaster should befall our supply lines, we will not run short of food quite so quickly." Itzal explained, happy to be back to the matter at hand.

"I can't help but notice you said " _the stated reason"._ Is there some reason to doubt their truthfulness in this matter?" Acaeus asked. Itzal shook his head.

"I cannot discern any lie, nor a reason to believe that they have cause to deceive us. I can only harbor suspicion that there may be something else at work here. Something that we have overlooked. But meanwhile the Skitarii and the Brotherhood of Mars are absolutely irate at the loss of their forgeworlds, and are roaring to be let loose upon the heretics to the east with all haste. They spare absolutely no thought to the arguments of biological necessities such as food, and the allure of another agriworld is entirely lost upon them. So we find ourselves divided."

"So what you're telling me," Acaeus said with some trepidation "Is that if we go east to reclaim those world's, we'll have the cult mechanicus at our backs, but not the Brothers Grimm nor the Sisters of Battle. Meanwhile if we go to the North, the Skitarii go East anyways and engage the Heretics in their fanaticism to retrieve their lost trinkets?"

"That," Itzal said grimly, "Is exactly what I'm telling you." 


	5. 5: Hindsight is always 2020

**Rekhel I: Convent of the Burning Heart, Auxiliary Garrison**

The first time Bell caught the redhead looking, it she had dismissed it. Her nickname was "Creep" but Bellatrix wouldn't judge. Creep also kept away from the rest of the girls, reason enough for Bellatrix to take a liking to her. So she dismissed it the first time. People might lose themselves in thought, might not understand what they're looking at. The second time she caught her, Bell gave her a significant glance to let her know it was unwelcome. The third time she saw it, she called her on it.

"You got a problem keeping your eyes to yourself, cunt?"

Everybody else in the shower turned. The redhead's face went the same color as her hair, she sent her eyes to the floor immediately.

"Looks like the Creep's got herself a new reason to masturbate." Hili giggled.

"It'd be the first time she was interested in a man! You ought to be proud of yourself, Ogryn." Frygath said.

Bell had had enough of this garbage. She had tried to make friends. She really had. Sat in all the gossip circles in the mess hall, read all the same groxshit magazines about what the celebrities were up to these days, had tried to listen to the meaningless, uninformed opinions around her. But this was it. She finally snapped.

"At least Creep CAN masturbate, unlike the rest of you!"

Smiles vanished all around Bellatrix.

"What's that mean?"

"It means I'm showering with a bunch of schoolgirls, is what! Creep is the only one here who's less concerned with how her hair looks than how to handle a weapon!" Bellatrix half-shouted. "It means I know why you lot are all in here, and I'm not fragging impressed, is what it means! I'm the only one in here for violent offenses, the rest of you are here because you _couldn't handle your shit!_ Can't handle finances to save your life, can't hold a job for more than a week, can't go a year without gross charges of negligence resulting in some sort of property damage! In short, you're all in here because you never left Base Education behind! Debt evasion, stealing, vandalism. Petty small time garbage that no self respecting adult would be caught dead doing, but you don't mind because you haven't bothered to _grow up! "_

 _"_ And the worst part of it? The worst part of it is that I'm rolling into battle with you ignorant little girls! It means I'm up on the storm bolter trying to put down hostiles, but in the back of my mind I'm wondering how my driver can possibly push her way through an ambush when she couldn't even keep her credit line under control! And what if I get hit by a lasbolt? Oh, well then that's alright, because I'll have the comfort of knowing that the medicae treating my life-threatening wounds had previously stormed out of her cushy office job because her boss had _offended_ her! And the woman providing cover fire for said medicae is only here because she was too intoxicated to control her aquatic transport vehicle two years previously, but I'm absolutely sure that she'll be able to handle heretics trying to blow us all into the warp! But it's fine, I'm sure it will all be just fine! Because nothing on the battlefield could possibly be any meaner than the _Rekhel Resalka's_ , a bunch of immature gossip hens too busy wondering about Princess Pionta's latest STD to have the faintest clue on how to throw a krak grenade."

Bellatrix shoved her way through a mess of flesh to get to the locker rooms, giving her body a cursory wipe down with the woefully inadequate towel before throwing on her clothes. How did this end up happening? She had heard horror stories even in _prison_ about how ruthless and psychotic those in penal battalions could be. She had heard stories of beheadings by fellow battalion members, unpopular inmates getting skinned alive, eyes gouged out, genitals mutilated and more.

And then there were the Rekhel Resulka's: more fit for cleaning graffiti off buildings than to be storming hostile positions. More worried about the lack of nail polish than the fact that they didn't know how to clean a lasgun. Absolutely un-fragging-believable.

"I'm sorry for staring."

 _Oh great._ Bellatrix didn't bother turning. She had seen enough female skin for the day.

"It's fine." She said tersely, lacing up her combat boots.

"No, it's not fine. I know it weirds people out. It's...I mean...sorry. I'm sorry I'm a woman who likes other women and I got thrown in here with the rest of you. I shouldn't have. It makes all of you uncomfortable, and I know it."

"It's certainly not natural, that's for sure. But I also figure there's nothing you can do about it." Bellatrix grunted. "Girls in my facility managed to get themselves stabbed over it, I gave up believing that it's somehow your fault. Nobody risks a shanking over a sexual deviancy. Getting stabbed _hurts_ , take it from somebody who knows."

"Is that your way of telling me that you'll cut me if you catch me staring at you again?" The redhead asked nervously.

"I didn't mean it like that, but now that I think about it, it doesn't seem like the worst idea I've heard. So yeah, next time keep your eyes to yourself or I'll use you for bayonet practice. That being said, please don't make me do it, or I'll be left alone with these twits and I may have to slit my own wrists if that's the case."

"Well, you may want to lay off the death threats, you're not making any friends here. It's bad enough that the medicae doesn't know what she's doing, it won't help if she _accidentally-on-purpose_ lets you bleed out if you take a shell fragment to the throat."

"Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."

"And my name's Jillian. Jill for short. Not Creep. And yours is Bellatrix."

Bellatrix looked at her with a grin.

"What, you don't _like_ the naming conventions around here? I was just getting used to the idea of being called Ogryn. At least the little brats have some idea that I could crush their skulls any time I want to. Going back to a regular name seems almost disrespectful, from that way of looking at it."

"Yeah, well _Creep_ insinuates that I'll follow them into their bunks and violate them in the middle of the night, so I don't much appreciate it."

"Then change it. Or embrace it. It's much more gratifying when they think you're going to sneak into their bunks and slit their fragging throats _,_ isn't it? It'll shut them up real fast. If they fear you for your sexuality, then take full advantage of it, I say. Let them think you're going to flay them and use their skin for a sweater or something, and they'll actually stay out of your way instead of jeering at you at every opportunity."

Jillian sighed.

"Surprise surprise, not everyone wants to be feared, you know. Some of us just want a little respect."

Bellatrix finished lacing her boots and turned around to find Jill half-clothed. At least she was covered now. Bellatrix, while being a mature adult, didn't like looking at nude women any more then she liked eating the same food at every meal time.

"You're not gonna find it until you earn it. Do things. Hard things. Do things that nobody else is willing or able to do. Keep running when other people stagger. Make it a point to stare into the corner when you're showering. Read the manuals till you know the Chimera inside & out. I don't earn respect because frankly I don't want any. These girls aren't worth earning respect from. But I know what I respect, and that is somebody who takes then time to make a place for themselves instead of just waiting for everybody else to just move aside and acknowledge them."

Jayne sideways looked at her while buckling her pants. "You don't want any respect from them? Is that why you sat with them all lunch hour yesterday, listening to them talk about Prince Holgan's dress coat?" she asked casually.

For a moment Bellatrix didn't know what to say and began tripping over her words. "I-..ugh, fucking...you know what? I know why you're called The Creep now. Do you ever stop just _watching_ people? Like, what the actual fuck? If you want respect, why do you just lurk in the shadows and leer at people and eavesdrop on them?"

The other woman's face flushed in anger. "I like company. I like companions. I just don't like _talking_ is all! Does everybody constantly feel the need to yammer at all hours of the day, huh? Does nobody but me find silence refreshing? Does all silence have to be pregnant and awkward and shameful?"

This conversation was getting to be trying, and Bell was already on a short fuse. "No, but friendship, like any type of relationship, requires an element of trust. When you're silent, people take it to mean that you're secretive. When you're secretive, it means you've got something to hide. When you've got something to hide, nobody trusts you and you don't earn any friends. You've got to open up and make yourself at least a little vulnerable if you want people to trust you."

Jillian finished pulling down her shirt and gave Bellatrix a look of disgust. "Right, because calling everyone a cunt, telling them that they're immature, and then threatening their lives is going to earn you so many friends! Like you've got some moral high ground to talk down from on the subject of friendship!"

With that, Jillian stormed out of the locker room. Bellatrix heard titters from the showers and immediately knew that the whole crowd of them had been clustered around the door, eavesdropping. It took all of her self control not to storm back there and begin beating every one of them to red paste.

{Line Break Here.}

 **Tau Gal'eath Battleship Hann'ie: Deep Space to the South of Rekhel.**

H'wann was ecstatic. His very own drone, bought from the Tech Syndicate. It was a humble little thing with the barest combat routines, and had cost him the better part of his month's pay. And it had no equipment on it beyond the anti-grav unit that would keep it aloft. But it was _his._

Never before could a Tau buy his own combat drone, they had been regulated to peacekeeping or military personnel only. But now anybody could own one. Not many people _wanted_ one of course, usually one simply gave some money to one of the private security firms on the Fleet, and drones could be a hand full if you didn't know all the tech involved and how to maintain them.

But H'wann did. And whatever he didn't know, he vowed he would learn. And of course, it gave him something to talk about at work.

Thankfully, his friend Ir'yr had taken over the computer systems, letting H'wann patrol his seven-corridor path along the ship like any other guard. Ir'yr had everything up to speed in no time, and H'wann's helmet had been updated with route maps, relevant updates on altercations or deployment changes, lists of usual trouble makers (which were thankfully few in this sector), and even a list of establishments that had cropped up onboard. Most were simply kiosks in the corridors, but once in a while there was an open storage unit that somebody leased from the captain to make an impromptu shop. All in all, H'wann was too busy looking at all the new curiosities to feel like a security guard.

Fortunately, his coworker Krogeck was with him to forcibly drag him away every time he became enamored with some bauble or new piece of tech that some low-income Earth Builder was peddling. Krogeck had moved in from a neighboring Kroot Warsphere, drawn by promises of tau flesh to consume.

H'wann didn't know how he felt about that. The idea of somebody actually _eating_ a tau made him squeamish to the point where he actively avoided the thought of it. In the Old System, it had been expressly forbidden for Kroot to dine on tau flesh. But to many Kroot, they viewed this new change as one might view a sudden windfall. Like new folks in the neighborhood who already knew the local customs and were prepared to integrate themselves into the community by being good Samaritans and helping their neighbors. H'wann couldn't deny that the Kroot had made themselves much friendlier now that the taboo had been lifted.

Luckily, each Tau could expressly state in his After Death Notice that his body would be disposed of in proper manner. H'wann had very promptly checked the "Customary Cremation" box upon receiving his ADN Card. To this day, H'wann was unaware of anyone who had checked the "Auction organs to various medical or miscellaneous firms" option.

Unluckily, Krogeck wouldn't shut up about the thought of eating a Tau corpse, and had repeatedly asked H'wann very pointedly about which option he had chosen on his After Death Notice. Finally, H'wann asked him about it. "Why does it matter? What do Kroot even get from eating Tau anyways? What do you want from our genes? Our intellect? Our eyesight? Our pheromones?"

To which Krogeck had responded "Your lack of humor, possibly."

If there had been some sort of joke there, H'wann had missed it. Finally, Krogeck shook his head vigorously, the equivalent to a sigh, and asked H'wann what he had heard of The Settlement Rumor. The Settlement Rumor was exactly that: A rumor that the fleet of the An'caa would soon settle a world.

Many Tau had been clamoring for it since the Great Division. The fleet of the An'Caa had been fugitives since Ge'on G'alt's speech on the rejection of the Greater Good. To this day it was unknown if they were being pursued, but regardless it was widely thought that the Fleet had to settle a world of it's own sooner or later. The growth of the fleet was extraordinarily limited for as long as the An'Caa remained fleet based.

The problem was that no world had yet been found. All worlds had been classified as too dangerous and unpleasant, or already taken by some other race. Taking worlds belonging to the Imperium would bring swift retribution that the An'Caa could ill afford. Taking worlds belonging to the Orks would bring Waaagh. But the public perception was steadily shifting. The Tau among the fleet were aging, and wished to start families before it was too late and they became infertile, leading to a growing feeling of anxiety. The commonly held opinion now was that the fleet should risk war with the Orks, and try to scrape by on rugged determination and the ingenuity that necessity always brought. Several senior corporations had pledged that they would settle the next habitable world with or without Ge'on G'alt's support.

Happy to be off the subject of the culinary practices of the Kroot, H'wann acknowledged that he had spent some time on the public forums. H'waan had merely been a child when the split had happened, but it had taken some considerable time for all the Tau to come around to the idea of a total dissolution of the caste system. In fact, many of the older generation still believed that The Split had been a bad idea, but had only now finally accepted it as the new direction of their lives whether they liked it or not. The newest cycle of rumors held that Ge'on Galt now had an outside benefactor backing the An'caa settlement venture. If that was true, then it was a huge relief for all involved. The fleet held several thousand tau souls, and even more auxiliaries. But it was a very large galaxy out there, and even a small Tyranid splinter fleet might dwarf their numbers a hundred to one. Outside help would be very welcome.

"Did you know that we will most likely be called to fight if we settle?" Krogeck asked. H'wann snapped his gaze from a very nice warsuit on display to his right. "What? How? Why?"

Krogeck chuckled. "Why so concerned, Tau? Did you not join security for the action?" the Kroot asked.

This was something H'wann couldn't answer. True, he _had_ joined for action. At least, that's what he liked to believe. Had he just wanted the shiny suit and gun, like some juvenile looking to play hero? H'wann didn't like to believe it. But most people didn't like to believe negative things about themselves. "I like to think I would be able to save lives. Technically my family belongs to the Water Caste. Maybe I was just being nonconformist, rebelling against my parents. But I hope that's not the case. I just wanted to help, in all honesty, and the Fire Caste caught my eye. Before we dissolved the caste system, that is." He confessed.

If Krogeck cared about H'wann's inner dilemma, he didn't show it. "We're part of Firing Solutions Security. Firing Solutions Security is a subsidiary of Dragon Force Enterprises." H'wann reeled. Dragon Force Enterprises, often shortened to DFE, was one of the leading corporations pledging it's support on colonization.

"Oh." H'wann said, rather weakly.

"You better get your personal feelings squared away, Tau. If we settle an Orkish world, we're going to be on the front lines. Orks aren't smart, but they don't play nice and they fight to the last one standing. I don't want to be fighting next to a kid who has half a mind to throw down his gun and run to mommy about how he made the wrong employment decisions." Krogeck said impassively, as if he didn't really care despite his personal stake in the issue.

H'wann inhaled deeply. "I'll get on it" he said, with more confidence than he really felt. Whether he liked it or not, he had pledged three years of his life regardless of his personal feelings on the issue. He _could_ quit if he was ok with accepting the contract penalty...which was a lot of money.

The rest of the shift passed in silence. Krogeck no longer had to pull his coworker away from displays, as H'wann was too busy stewing in what he would do and how he would go about doing it. Spending time on training manuals on the onboard forums suddenly sounded like a very good idea. That and the training sims suddenly seemed like they were worth spending money on. The _Hann'ie_ still had all of it's training decks fully operational, but they required resources to keep them in good condition. Since everything was now privatized, funding came in the form of service charges. One could pay single-use fees for a single scenario run, 10-hour fees (Measured in time actually spent training in the sims), 25-hour fees, 50 hour fees, or 100-hour fees for the truly ambitious.

There were cliques of Fire warriors who usually spent time in the training decks, the so-called "Sim-rats" who were there day after day. H'wann didn't like them, they looked down their noses at anyone who couldn't pull sufficient scores in the sims, and they usually weren't in any mood to help. It was for this reason H'wann had avoided the training decks, but now he was considering buying a 10-hour time pack. _That is, once you get your next check. You don't have any money after buying that drone..._

Gah. This was going to take some consideration. _Note to self, read the fine print before accepting job offers_ he thought to himself darkly.

 **Eldar Craftworld Jusai-Iex Deep Space to the South East of Rekhel**

 _Not as planned._

That was all Onshin could think as he paced in his room. A harlequin. A harlequin on the _Vet-Ala._

For the first time since his engagement with Fharzan all those years ago he felt...humiliated.

Onshin had taken the path of the Autarch quite purposefully from the beginning. It was actually one of the few paths one could choose from the outset of their Coming of Age. And Onshin had...well, not _relished_ it... But everyone had told him that he had such drive, motivation, and integrity. And especially among the egalitarian Eldar, such words were never said without weight. Whenever Onshin spoke, heads turned. He had become complacent in his position as Autarch, and now he cursed himself for it. He had simply become so accustomed to being assured in his decisions. He had grown...

Prideful.

At he now felt disgusted with himself. Despite what others thought, it was indeed possible for Eldar to have their ego punctured. And like all emotions Eldar felt, they felt it much more keenly and more deeply than others. Not many beings could make an Eldar feel ashamed. But then, not many beings were Harlequins.

Suffice to say, Vet-Ala would be joining the fight against Fharzan and the Flensed Corpse. Not because they needed to, not because they had been handed orders from the Harlequins to...

To...

 _"...to save the Jusai-Iex craftworld from the arrogance of a single juvenile boy so attuned to his personal vendettas that he could not see the death of his own Craftworld in a trap of his own making."_

The Fates of the Farseers had been correct: They would win the coming engagement, there would be no doubt of it. But not because of the brilliant cunning of Onshin, the Dark Kindred's Bane. Not because of his tactical brilliance or his courageous leadership or his web of intrigue. No, it was only because if the Harlequin had not tugged the Strings of Fate then nothing would be left of Jusai-Iex than a smoldering hulk of wraithbone adrift in space.

And to top the blow, Onshin now had a debt of honor to pay the Necromancers. They had fully intended to deny his request for help. They had been content to let Jusai-Iex to engage the horde of coming Dark Eldar alone, which ultimately would have destroyed them. If a Harlequin had not personally intervened on Onshin's account, he would have led his craftworld straight into the maw of it's own destruction. They were saving his craftworld. His craftworld, who had been so enamored with Onshin's brilliance years before in the first outmaneuvering of the Flensed Corpse that they had given him undue deference in his Path.


End file.
